A Compilation of Stories
by firearms57
Summary: Different stories, different pairings, different styles. I plan on writing angst, romance, humor, all you can think of. Suggestions for what to write next can be left in the reviews. Feysand. Moriel. Nessian. :)
1. Holes (Slight Feysand)

_**Note: This is only for those wierdos who are actually interested in what the author has to say. If you're normal, skip to the actual fic.**_

 **Hello, all!**

 **I've recently gotten hooked on Sarah J. (for Jeenius) Maas' books. I loved the Throne of Glass series, and I'm waiting as anxiously as the rest of you for _Empire of Storms,_ but I read _A Court of Mist and Fury_ _after _ I finished _Queen of Shadows_ , and I got this feeling. You know the one I'm talking about, where you think you've read the best book ever, but then you move on to the next one, and you realize just how wrong you were. And when you reread the previous book, you're opinion flips again. And—**

 **Well, maybe that's just me, but anyway, I've been feeling a need to write fanfic for them because I love Rhys and Feyre. :)) They're so cute. And I also love Azriel and Mor. :'(( *Teary eyed mess* They're in denial everybody, don't you get it?! *Clears throat* And I love Cassian and Nesta. O.O They're so...punchy. Whatever that means. So...I hope you enjoy this drabble. I'm not really sure how far I'll take this whole fanfic series, but feedback always helps. If any of you have a request, leave it in the reviews or PM me. I'll do my best to live up to your standards.**

 **Anyway, gotta go feed the cat again!**

 **-Arya**

* * *

 **Rhys**

Agony. The feeling that clawed at his heart, tore it from his chest and threw it to the vultures. The only feeling he knew. Vague memories of laughing or crying flitted through his blank mind, but they were dulled, muted, as if on the other side of a wall. He couldn't bring himself to care anymore, the anguish was too much. The once sharp pain had lost its sting, as blunt as the thoughts in his head. Sometimes he'd black out. Those were always the best of moments, a reprieve from the torture.

If the arrows in his wings had been painful, the ones in his eyes were devestating. The attack had happened so fast, none of them were prepared for it. Fae in gleaming armor, fae with ash-arrows, everywhere. Tamlin had sent them, the Spring Court emblem emblazened on their helms. They swarmed him and Azriel, bowstrings twanging in their ears. It had been a twisted repeat of Hybern, except it wasn't Cassian's wings that were damaged. It was Azriel's. The arrows had sliced cruelly through the membrane as if it was paper, knocking and pinning him to the ground.

His agonized cry had Rhys whirling, dark power threatening to unleash itself, but it'd never had the chance. By turning around, he'd left his face open to fire. The double volley put even him to the test. It was his honed reflexes that saved him, leaping over the three projectiles that hurtled for his chest. But they'd still got him. When Azriel had appeared at the gates of Velaris, Feyre and Mor had winnowed quickly to see what the problem was. They'd found the shadowsinger near collapsed on the ground, tattered wings sagging behind him. He hadn't been able to fly, so he'd carried Rhys all the way here. Indeed, there was no sign of mud on the High Lord, even though Azriel was caked in the stuff. The only way to avoid soiling Rhys' body would have been to hold him high above the ground, and Feyre could only imagine, Azriel, near death, cradling his friend as gently as a babe, though his entire being screamed at him to stop. But despite the obvious care, Azriel had been unable to do anything to stop the attack.

When Amren had looked over Rhys, she'd shook her head sadly. "There's nothing I can do for him. Perhaps dull the pain, but the poison has already taken its toll. And this..." She hesitantly brushed a finger against the shaft protruding from his eye socket. She shook her head again. "This is beyond me. "

Feyre had cried, she still was, he knew. He could hear her racking sobs, feel the dewdrops splattering against his cheek. Something in him wept mournfully along with her, appalled that she was in as much pain as he was. Once he'd tried to reach out to her, but it seemed even his mind was weak. He could feel her though, and for now, that was all that mattered. Cassian's reaction had been much more muted. He hadn't shed any tears, only nodded his understanding of the situation and closed the door. He hadn't come out since.

Mor stayed with Azriel. Whenever Feyre went to visit them in the House of Winds, she was greeted with silence. A haunted look was glued to her red-rimmed irises, a look that Feyre shared. They didn't speak because they didn't need to. Amren had been the calmest of them all, trying her best to keep the lot of them together. Their family was breaking, the stress and fear fraying their nerves to fine threads just waiting to snap. And snap they did. One wrong word and the friends you'd die for turned on you.

Amren remained neutral, doing her best to break up wars and play mediator, but she couldn't be everywhere at once. Skirmishes had become a daily thing, and so they all did their best to avoid one another, choosing to feul their grief in solitude. But they all knew in the backs of their minds that without the others, they'd be nothing. It was often a fleeting thought, stuffed away behind the supposed anger and hatred, but it was there. So they stayed together, knit loosely, but together.

Rhys stopped caring about the things going on around him. Instead he focused on the agony, the only thing real in this upturned universe. He learned to love it.

One night, when he was letting the burning pain fill his pours, he heard voices. They drifted lazily into his ears, and his brain struggled to recognize the words.

— _wake up...remedy...risky...never see again._

He felt they should mean something, but it seemed unimportant when compared to the pull of the agony. So he burned.

And then, one day it was gone. The agony was gone. It had retreated to wherever it came from, scared off by tonics and herbs and magic. He howled at the loss of it, at the loss of feeling, because it was all that he knew, and it had been taken. He'd kill them, the ones who'd done this to him. He'd—

"Rhys."

A name. His name. And the voice. Her voice.

"Feyre," he croaked. His voice was hoarse and weak, but he heard the audible gasps in the room. All of a sudden the noises asaulted his consciousness. Questions were hurled at him, and he winced with each one.

 _Are you okay? What happened? I was so worried. Do you need help? Is it still painful?_

And it was all just _too much_ because—

"I can't see you." He jerked his head to the side, even though it killed him, then to the other. Nothing. Only darkness. "I can't see you," he said again, panic starting to set in.

That quieted them. But the silence only accentuated the thud of his heart, his labored breaths, and the roar in his ears. "Feyre! Where are you?"

And then he heard something else. The stuttering inhale that came with tears. It was Azriel's voice, and wonder mixed with the fear. Azriel had never wept, never. Not once in all the centuries they'd known each other. Mor said the same, Cassian too. His stoicism rivaled that of a stone, and to hear him break, it frightened him. What could be so bad that the hardened spymaster would _cry?_

 _"Feyre,"_ he said again, hysteria edging his voice. "Tell me why I can't see you. What happened?"

He called her name again when she didn't answer. Then Azriel. Mor. Cassian. Amren. They were all silent, the only sound Azriel's quiet tears _._

 _"Someone answer me!"_ And when no one did, he yelled again.

And it was Amren who finally broke the news. "You're blind, High Lord. The arrows poisoned your eyes. We had to sew them shut after the removal process."

Silence.

And then Feyre was screaming, clawing at Amren, calling her a bitch for being so insesitive, glistening trails cascading down her face all the while. For all the hate she showed Amren, she hated herself more. She didn't know why, but it was there. Guilt for not being at Rhys' side, pity for Mor and Azriel, and _rage,_ such _rage,_ at Tamlin. Containing the emotions had done something to her, turned her into a beast, and she found her talons had split from her skin, running angry red streaks through flesh. And Amren let her, because she knew the pain was too much, and because she felt it was right.

And Rhys, Rhys felt something stir in him. An ember of the agony he'd one known. And he vowed to fan those flames, until they rose high, high above his head, and burned the Spring Court to the ground.

* * *

 **Not sure how I feel about this... I kinda just let it happen. So, let me know what you think. Remember to leave suggestions in the reviews. :)**

 **-Arya**


	2. Birthday (Moriel)

**Hey all!**

 **Sorry it's been so long... There are no excuses but let me give you one. Ah, school. The terrible torture of the thing. Anyway, here's a Moriel fic for fourlikethenumber. Sorry the beginning is so...awkward. I just, it's 1:43 am and I'm too lazy to edit, so what the heck. Take it or leave it. God, this one's long. Let me know if you guys have any requests for stories. I'm open.**

 **Gotta go feed the cat!  
**

 **-Arya**

* * *

Mor loved Azriel with all her being. Without him, she would turn to dust, blown away in the gust of her grief. She did her best to avoid thinking about things like _death,_ or _pain_ , when it came to him. They were immortal, she'd chide herself. What were the odds that he would get himself killed? But the truth of his work always sobered her laughter. He worked for the most sought after High Lord, sending probes into excedingly dangerous places. He may have survived these past centuries, but with each passing minute, the chances of a knife in the back increased.

That's why she took every chance she could to spend time with him, that's why, when his birthday came around, she decided she had to do something for him. Fae birthdays were different than those of the humans. A year was a tiny fraction of the potential lifespan of an immortal thing, so it was instead the decade that was celebrated. The end of the every tenth spring marked the commemoration of Azriel's contributions to Prythian. Normally something only celebrated with Rhys' inner circle, Mor wanted to try something different this time.

"Is everything ready?" she asked eagerly.

"Yes, Mor, calm down." Cassian grinned wryly. "You've been bouncing off the walls for almost three months now. Sooner or later you're going to fall, and I can't be the one to catch you, at least, not without acquiring serious injury."

"I know, I know," Mor sighed, too wound up to deny the accusation. "It's just...I've been preparing everything up until now, and I'm worried—" She hesitated, shaking her head.

Cassian laughed and clapped a hand across her shoulders. "Hey, don't worry about it. I'm sure Azriel will love it. And if he doesn't," he winked, "you could always make it up to him some other way."

He sauntered away, cackling evilly, leaving a crimson-cheeked Mor to gather her wits about her.

"Mor!" Elain's joyful chirp sounded muffled from the other room. "Pretty much everyone has put their gifts out! Wanna come over and help with decorations? Mor?" She popped her head around the edge of the doorway and, noticing the prominant blush across her friend's face, sniggered. "This is about Azriel, isn't it? What're you thinking about?"

Mor flushed further and shook her head. "Nothing." The truth was they'd never done anything like that. Azriel had been very clear when he said _slow,_ he didn't want to mess anything up, they'd waited too long, and Mor was willing to do what he wished. It didn't mean she couldn't dream though.

Elain smiled prettily, pressing a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. "You two are so cute. You've been running from each other for forever, and even when you finally accept the bond, you still tiptoe around each other. It's like you think Azriel won't like the party or something. What?" Her brow furrowed when she saw Mor's expression fall. "Are you really—Oh."

Elain's features gentled this time, crossing the room to cacoon Mor in a loose hug. "Mor. You don't have to scared about that. There's no chance Azriel won't appreciate what you did. He loves you."

"I know," Mor grumbled. "But still..." She buried her face in Elain's peach-colored tunic and breathed in deep the scent of blooming jasmine. The girl had managed to get her magic under control, yet she always carried a faint flowery smell about her. It was an instant soother. When Mor finally extracated herself from the embrace, a light smile graced her lips. "Thank you."

Elain returned the smile, "Always." She beamed suddenly. "I have an idea."

#

After Elain left, Mor set about to finding a suitable outfit to wear. She meandered the streets, a finger touching her lip, thoughts occupied with other things. Both Elain and Cassian had told her not to worry, but she couldn't help notice every single flaw in the preperations. Was there too much glitter? No, that was impossible.

"Ooh," Mor squealed, every troublesome notion fleeing from her head. She scurried over to the shop that had caught her attention, eying the assortment of lace and chiffon. She'd been shooting intense glares between two particular dresses when a hand tapped her on the shoulder. Mor yelped and whirled around, the dresses flying from her hands.

"Whoa," Feyre held up her hands, grinning. "Calm down."

"Oh, it's just you. Which one?" She shoved the two frilly garments in her friend's face.

Feyre pushed the dresses away from her, raising an eyebrow. "Neither, to be honest. But what are you doing here?"

Mor raised an eyebrow. "What does it look like?"

She tssked. "I meant what are you doing _here._ In this particular shop?"

"Does it hold any significance?"

Feyre chuckled. "Not really. Just, this is where I take Rhys on his birthday. I was wondering if you were doing the same for Az."

"You take...Rhys...here...?" Mor said slowly. "Why?"

"Look behind you."

Mor really didn't want to, but curiosity had her spinning around. "Aw, fuck." Rows and rows of cotton, lace, and silk. Underwear of red, blue, green, all colors, lined the racks and shelves. She'd walked into a lingerie store. "No," she turned mortified to Feyre. "I was just looking at the dresses!"

Feyre grinned wider. "You didn't check very well, then." She took both dresses in hand and unfolded them. A deep V nearly split the first in half, while the second had no back to speak of save a few thin scraps of cloth.

"I didn't see—" Mor began. "What will I wear—"

Feyre cut her off with a smirk. "I have an idea."

#

Mor started back for the hall. The party was called for nightfall, and the sun was beginning its dip below the horizon. She paused with one foot in the air, though, when she saw two shapes in the sky. Large for birds, she thought. Yes, much too large. Her eyes widened in alarm when she realized they were hurtling directly at her. She turned to run, but too late.

Two hulking Illyrians rammed into her back, crushing her to the ground with all the force of a stone bench. She cursed them in her head, as she couldn't seem to find enough breath to do it out loud.

"I won," Cassian said from above her.

" _What?"_ Rhys' incredulous voice sounded from next to him. A hand dug into her shoulderblade as he pushed himself upright. " _I_ won!"

Cassian's deep laugh shuddered through her ribcage, her teeth rattling as he moved to match Rhys' sitting position.

 _Two Illyrian males on top of me. Not exactly how I imagined the whole thing would play out._

"You two know it wasn't a competition." Amren's boots appeared in front of Mor's face. "I gave you a simple order, 'Find Mor,' and still you manage to botch the job." Mor imagined Amren shaking her head in disappointed amusement.

"Am—Amre..." Mor wheezed. She pleaded with her friend silently.

Amren glanced down at her. "Oh, get off her, you brutes. You don't want to come up to Azriel with a flattened Mor saying, 'Here's your mate!' You'd both get pummeled, and Mor would be cackling in the background while he did it."

They grumbled, but stood up, popping a few of Mor's ribs in the process.

"God," she choked out, hoisting herself painfully to her feet. "What have you guys been eating?"

Amren snorted. "Everything in the kitchen. All the cookies are gone because of Cassian. And Rhys managed to eat three pounds of chocolate. It's probably why they decided it would be a good idea to tackle you."

Indeed, they both seemed to be jittering from their apparant sugar high."Said the one who ate an entire box of chocolate," Cassian shot back.

Mor folded her arms and huffed. "It was a present. For me."

"A _box_."

"He does have a point there," Rhys added helpfully.

"Oh, don't even start, 'Mr. I deserve all the danishes because I'm the High Lord.'" Mor pointed at him accusingly. "Feyre bought those for everybody."

"But she is my mate."

" _Ladies_." Amren stepped between the squabbling Fae. "I don't know if you remembered the reason we're here. _Ahem_." She raised her brows and stared pointedly at the Illyrians.

"Actually," Cassian rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "What if I said I didn't?"

"Mmm." Amren examined her nails. "I might just tell Rhys about that thing with Nesta—"

"O-kay!" Cassian clapped his hands together loudly. "Birthdays. Uh...celebration. Let's...do stuff." He took a step forward, stopped at a loud ripping sound.

"What's this?" Amren asked, picking up Mor's dress. A large tear had formed on the side from where Cassian's boot had struck it.

"Nothing," Mor made a hasty grab for it, but Amren chucked it at Rhys before she could do anything. "Cassian!"

He caught the dress in one hand and grinned broadly at the skin-tight feel and swooping neckline. "Scandalous," he tutted. "What will Az think?" He chuckled. "I'd like to see how big his eyes bug. Maybe take Feyre with you so she could paint it."

Rhys snatched it from his general's grasp. "Nice material," he murmered. "Silk. Where did you get this? Don't ask Feyre to paint, ask her to buy something like this."

"Uh," Mor smiled sheepishly. "About that..."

He stared. "You mean—" Rhys laughed, loud and sharp. "This is from my favorite store, isn't it? The little vixen took you there herself."

Amren looked between them with a curious expression on her face. "You couldn't expect only to wear the dress. It's nice on its own, but it needs...something."

"Now, I don't want to agree with Amren, ever, but if I were Azriel, a much more beautiful, manly Azriel—" Mor scowled. "—I would need something to set the mood. You can't just walk into a room naked and expect him to jump you. A man's arousal is a delicate thing—"

Rhys rubbed his forehead. "Don't listen to him, Mor. It's the exact opposite. The most blunt thing you can think of, that's what you should do."

"Men are stupid when it comes to what's right in front of their face," Amren said. "Especially Illyrians. Azriel is totally clueless about your feelings. He only knows what you tell him. Walking into that party dressed in scraps, well," she shrugged. "He'll probably assume you have your sights set on someone more attractive than he is."

"But that's ridiculous!" Mor said.

"Exactly why it's true."

"Oh," Cassian snapped his fingers, and both he and Rhys said at the same time, "I have an idea."

While they glared at each other in a silent staring contest, Amren whispered in an aside to Mor, "I have an idea as well, to fix that dress of yours."

#

"You look fine," Feyre consoled Mor for the tenth time.

"Really?" she asked nervously, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She wore a great sweeping gown of red and gold, a swirling S pattern taken out of both sides. It had been provocative enough without the touch-ups Amren had added. When she'd hacked into the fabric with a pair of shears Mor had been horrified, but the silver-eyed faerie had merely smirked and said in an all-too-innocent voice that now she _had_ to fix it up. That basically meant chopping the dress in half.

"Yes," Feyre's lips curled evilly. "Azriel will certainly budge this time." Once Mor had said she could peel off her dress in front of the spymaster and he wouldn't move an inch. That was before Feyre's _talk_ and his acceptance of the bond.

Mor took a deep breath. "Are you sure this is a good idea? The whole breaking away from the main party thing?"

"Of course it is," she chided. "I'm full of good ideas."

Mor gave her a look despite her nerves. "Last time you said that Rhys' wings ended up on fire and the entirety of Velaris was ready to stab you with a stake for killing their High Lord."

"Yes, but it was only my good ideas that got me out of that situation. Now, come on. It's about to start."

She ushered Mor into the large dining hall where balloons of blue and silver spiked against the ceiling far above. Rhys and Cassian did their best to distract Mor until Amren would arrive with Azriel. It was when Mor had been snorting at a particularly lewd comment from Rhys that the shadows arrived. Dark tendrils of smoke skirted the walls and streamers above the crowds. The people broke out in excited whispers. _He's here. Everyone be quiet._

The door opened and Mor's breath caught. Azriel wore a deep blue blazer and black slacks. He'd never worn something like this, usually clad in his fighting leathers, but it somehow fit on him. The elegant planes of his face matched the look of his suit, it made him seem more...professional. Her eyes drifted to the peak of his dress shirt, where the top two buttons had conveniently been left undone.

"For you," Cassian whispered in her ear, following her gaze, and she could practically hear the smugness oozing from his voice. Mor didn't answer, watching Azriel's reaction. He took in the scene with much more decorum than Rhys had only a few months earlier. Surprise birthdays had become a tradition, so much so that it wasn't really a surprise anymore. He flicked his attention between the balloons, the set tables, the anticipative crowd, Mor, and let his eyes linger.

After a few heart-stopping moments, he shook his head as if from a daze and addressed the entire crowd. "I want to say thank you to everyone for preparing this for me. I assume it was hard, given how pissy Cassian was on the way here," he stated dryly. As he continued, Mor marveled at how far he'd come frpm his tendency to withdraw. He still didn't like strangers, or talking about himself, but here he was, speaking to the hundreds gathered before him. Azriel finished with a crack that had everyone roaring with laughter, then sent them to talk amongst themselves with smiles on their faces.

Mor held her breath in anticipation of his arrival, but she was sorely dissapointed. Instead of walking directly over to her like she thought he would, he crossed the room to converse with Feyre and Rhys, his back to her. Cassian laughed softly at her distraught expression. "Leaving you for two, is he?" Mor threw a finger at him, and he only laughed harder. Talking to Cassian was easy, with his light banter and easy grin, but she was too distracted to enjoy it properly. Thankfully, he seemed to understand and stayed, if only for her benefit, until finally she couldn't take it anymore and decided she had to go. Cassian deemed her worthy enough for a pat on the back and a push towards her mate, not that she needed the encouragement.

"—fit the entire thing in his mouth," Rhys was saying. Feyre burst out laughing and Az chuckled quietly.

Rhys looked between them with a pained expression. "You both think I'm joking."

"Excuse me," Mor interrupted, smoothly taking hold of Azriel's shoulders and steering him towards the dark stairs leading up.

Feyre and Rhys grinned knowingly and Cassian hooted from off in the distance. Mor held her chin up, ignoring the flush on her cheeks. Azriel was quiet on their journey up the steps, his feet mimicking his silence.

When they finally reached the top, Mor was panting slightly, but she caught her breath at the sight in front of her. The'd made their way to a secluded balcony, where the sky had turned purple under the hand of dusk, stars sprinkled across its surface like glittering dust. A large table stood in center of the terrace, laden with enough food to satisfy even Cassian after his nightly excursions with Nesta.

Amren lounged in one of the chairs, and she got to her feet with their entry. "About time," she growled. "I've been up here for the better part of an hour."

"And you can leave," Mor huffed, impatient to be alone with her mate.

Amren mimicked Mor petulantly but walked to the doorway. "Oh, don't forget this," she called over her shoulder. Azriel caught the bottle of wine in his left hand, and they both watched her descent down the spiraling staircase.

When she had gone, Mor turned her attention to Azriel. And finally, _finally,_ he was looking back. He set the wine down on the table as she prowled closer to him, a glint in her eyes. Close enough to feel the heat of him, she breathed in his ear, "You tease."

"What do you mean?" he murmered, pulling her closer and brushing his lips across her neck.

Closing her eyes to the sensation, she continued. "You avoided me. Went right to Rhys after you finished wooing the crowd."

He laughed softly. "I didn't _woo_ them. I do that only to you." The timid teasing in his voice made her smile. He was still figuring everything out, still so hesitant around her as Elain had pointed out. She found new angles to him every day, almost enough to make her think he was an endless book. The first glimpses of his humor had been swift and subtle, quick enough that she'd thought him unaware of his own jokes. But then he'd slowly warmed to the idea, and she found that he could make the same arrogant lines she'd thought only Rhys or Cassian able of. An Illyrian thing, she decided.

Mor wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest. "I love you," she whispered. The first time she said it.

"I love you too." No hesitation. No doubts. It only made the feeling stronger.

They stood like that for a while, until Mor's stomach growled.

"How long have you been hiding your hunger?" he asked amusedly.

"As long as I've been here." She didn't budge from her position.

A pause.

"Maybe we should eat then," Azriel suggested.

"No, no, I like it here." She squeezed him tighter for emphasis, and he let out a grunt as his diaphragm contracted. "Good thing you haven't eaten yet," Mor mumbled. "Otherwise it might be on the floor right now."

Az huffed a laugh and pressed a kiss to her brow. "Fine, then. We'll stay like this." He shuffled them over to the balcony edge and braced his hands on the railing, cacooning Mor in between his arms. His chin rested just above her head. Peace and contentment settled over them as they watched the brightening starlight. A violet ocean lapped gently at the shore, waves chafing against the sand. Small seabirds swooped and dived in the salty depths, cawing their cries to the heavens. Beautiful. Utterly beautiful. Another stomach grumbled, this time Azriel's.

Mor groaned and ducked beneath his arm, her own hunger taking over. "Alright, stomachs, you win."

Azriel's lips curved as he watched her pile her plate high with everything but food. Cookies, yes, cakes, of course, but roast chicken and ham were left abandoned. Az happily took them into his care.

"Forget something?" Mor asked around a cream puff, inclining her head at the forgotten bottle of wine. Azriel shrugged and unstoppered the cork, pouring the crimson liquid into either cup.

Azriel lifted his cup with a nod. "To the Court of Dreams."

"And me. Don't forget me," she chirped, clinking her glass to his with a smirk. He took a sip of his wine in answer, but Mor thought she could see him smile around the rim. The wine was rich and sweet, inviting in its tasteful palate.

"Mm," Az muttered. "Amren knows her liquor."

"What?" Mor put down her empty cup.

"I said—" He sighed ruefully. "Never mind."

Mor found herself staring at him, at his dark hair, his hazel eyes. Oh, those eyes. They were blazing with something...she didn't know what, but it made her insides tingle. Excitement bubbled up inside her as she watched him watch her. He still drank his wine, slowly, measured, in the same fashion that he scrutinized her. He didn't speak words but his expression said enough.

He stood up fluidly, pushing back the chair with a bit more zeal than necessary. His stride was purposeful as he approached her, each step closer pulling the knot in her gut tighter. When he tugged her flush against him, the strings got so tangled she was sure the loops would never come loose again.

"Did I ever tell you how beautiful you are?" Azriel said in an undertone that had her liquid in seconds.

She kissed him, hard and wanting, when his hands roamed through her hair. Azriel responded similarly, in a way she'd never known him capable of. _Slow_ was forgotten in the press of their lips, replaced with _hunger_ and _need._ When they broke apart, Mor let her eyes wander across his face, the curve of his jaw, the slant of his nose. Why was he so damn—

"— _ha_ _ndsome?_ " Mor said at the same time Azriel said _"Beautiful."_

 _"Fuck_ ," she muttered, wrenching her gaze from his. "What was in that wine?"

#

"What's taking so long?" Rhys grumbled. "They've been up there for three hours." He was pacing back and forth across the hall, so fast Feyre was sure he'd wear a hole through the floor. The party had ended an hour ago, Cassian and the rest departing to their respective holes.

"Should take longer," Amren said, picking at her teeth with a finger.

"What?" Rhys turned to glare at his Second. "You know what's happening?"

"Sure," she shrugged. "I was the one who caused it."

Feyre narrowed her eyes. "What _was_ in that wine?" She'd been there when Amren bought it. It had been a surprise purchase, the wine holding no real allure other than being cheap. Amren had taken it to her home, claiming she needed to keep it safe for the upcoming birthday. Feyre hadn't questioned, but she had her suspicions.

"Oh, nothing." She smiled cruelly. "Just a pinch of jiara to...spice things up."

Rhys paled. "They said _slow,_ Amren!"

"What is it?" Feyre demanded.

Rhys was silent for a second, then said grimly, "An aphrodisiac."


	3. Flame (Nessian)

**Hey guys! Been a while. Sorry. School started. Big deal and all. So here's Nessian banter.**

"Cassian," Nesta said through gritted teeth. "It's barely a singe. Get over it."

Cassian moaned and rolled around the floor, clutching his head. "My hair! My beautiful hair! It's ruined!"

This particular day had been absolute chaos. Nesta had woken up feeling extra prickly, because she was on her cycle or it was simply one of those days, she didn't know. She'd growled at Cassian from the moment he woke up and greeted her with a "Good morning." Her mate had dragged her to the circle to train, despite her groans about being tired, and it took only a few half-hearted punches to awaken her anger. With a snarl, she'd launched herself at him, dropping the practice sword she'd been using. Cassian's sword too rattled to the ground, he falling backwards under the weight of her attack. Feral snaps and the gnashing of teeth. Everything had been going fine, bruises on both their faces, blood in both their mouths, when hell broke loose.

She hadn't meant to, but her magic had simply exploded. Fire rained down around them in great spears, catching on the wooden swords. Cassian had thrown a shield up just in time, but not before a spark had caught on the edge of his hair. When the blaze died away, Nesta panting and feeling decidedly better than before, Cassian had finally realized his predicament. The smell should've alerted them earlier, but they'd both been too distracted by the fire. Nesta put the little flame out before anything bad could happen, the dregs trailing up whisps of smoke. The damage was minimal, nothing a little trim couldn't fix, but Cassian had fallen to the floor and near bawled when he realized he wouldn't be able to have it out long anymore. Which brought them to their current situation.

"My hair..." he sighed again, sounding defeated. Nesta sighed and closed her eyes. She tried to feel bad but found she was unable to. What had started off as a simple sparring match had quickly escalated into a battle of wills. Everyone in the Night Court knew by know to stay away when things got heated between them, whether that meant throwing punches or smashing their lips together. Once, Rhys and Azriel had taken to the rink with them. Rhys had left to get a drink, Azriel with him. When he'd returned, he was met with the sight of Nesta straddling Cassian on the dusty ground, kissing him fiercely. Nesta had merely pointed a certain finger over her shoulder, not that Rhys needed any incentive to leave. That was the last time anyone offered to partner with them. Supervision was of utmost importance concerning the two of them, as they couldn't be left alone for more than a minute before war broke out amongst them.

"Would you just, shut up," Nesta asked distantly, rubbing her temples.

Footsteps.

"Woah. What happened to him?" Rhys's voice.

Azriel next to him looked at her curiously. "I thought mates were supposed to help each other in times of need."

Her lip curled. "Then he should be helping me."

Rhys moved to kneel beside his general, patting him cautiously on the shoulder. "Uh, Cassian. Is something wrong?"

"Yes!" he wailed, an arm held imploringly over his forehead. He cracked open one hazel eye and pointed an accusatory finger with his free hand at Nesta. "That _demon_! She ruined my hair!"

Rhys blinked confusedly and glanced to Azriel for guidance. The shadowsinger shrugged. "How...exactly?" he finally said.

"She burned it all off."

"Looks like it's still there to me," Az deadpanned.

A choked sob came from Cassian. He covered his face with his hands. "That's because you can't see the evidence. Ihide the truth in my shame, lying here on my back. Feast your eyes upon the horrors wrought up by the Archeron sisters! Gah!" He rolled onto his stomach to show the back of his neck.

Azriel rolled his eyes. "It looks fine. Just get a haircut."

"Yes," Rhys agreed. "It was getting a bit long anyway." He grinned suddenly. "Remember, Az? That time we challenged him to a flying race and he couldn't go two feet in the air without his hair getting into his mouth."

The shadows lifted slightly as the spymaster's lips turned up. "Yes. And then he smacked into a pole."

"You insult me in my time of vulnerability," Cassian cried. "Shame on you all. Shame on your families."

"You basically just shamed yourself, Cass," Nesta snorted. "If you consider yourself family anyway."

"Begone, vixen! Leave back to your hellhole, or wherever it is vile things like you live. This curse you have enchanted me with, the horror. I will be bald for the rest of my life, doomed to look like a chicken."

Nesta scowled and folded her arms. "Now you're just being ridiculous."

"Never." Cassian curled into the fetal position once more. "I can never be ridiculous. Simply addled in the drunken haze you have thrown around my senses."

Azriel frowned. "This archaic dialogue is starting to wear at my nerves." Rhys nodded.

"Oh, where hath my dignity gone? It hath left, burned away with the ends of my hair. Tell those who bear my will to erase the devil from the list. She was the cause of all the horrors that hath befallen mine poor being."

"Alright, you can shut up now," Rhys told him.

"This terrible felony that has been committed against me. The stealing of the one thing I have left, my pride. A death warrant is in order. I demand it!"

"Cassian."

"How awful this—"

"Cassian."

"—feeling. To be drenched in sorrow and tears with no—"

" _Cassian_."

"—comfort to be offered to a poor soul in his time of need."

"Oh gods," Nesta groaned, covering her ears. "Make him stop."

So they did. Cassian got over his hair real quick once he realized he was being dangled off the edge of a cliff. Rhys and Azriel made him apologize to the both of them, including Nesta, in front of the entire assemblage of Velaris, a High Lord's order. Then they took him to get a haircut. No more complaints.


	4. On the Beach (Moriel NSFW)

**Warning; This is smut. SMUTTY SMUT**

The sun beat heavy against Azriel's uptilted wings. It was the thick of summer, hot and humid, and laziness had overtaken the whole of Velaris. The war with Hybern was long forgotten, nearly two decades ago now. The feelings of unease were still there though, in the families who'd lost more than one, in the younger generations, now orphans. But the inner circle had learned to cope better than most, used to hardship and facing near-death. They relied upon each other for tenderness and comfort, and they'd found an overabundance of the thing for a good few months before Cassian regained his flight and good humor with it.

With the heat, laziness had overtaken them all. The busybody atmosphere of the Night Court had been lain to rest for the time being, instead replaced with afternoon naps and mornings slept in. Even Azriel, perhaps the most hardworking of them all, had decided it was time for vacation. He lay on his stomach, facing the rising tide. The dampened sand beneath his bare chest was pleasant in a strange sort of way, gliding up and down roughly. With his eyes closed, chin resting against his folded forearms, he let out a contented chirr.

"Enjoying yourself, hmm?" Morrigan asked from his right. Az cracked open an eye to gaze at her, always a beautiful sight, especially with the light gleaming against her sun-kissed skin. She was on her back, body aligned neatly with his, though her brown orbs remained firmly shut.

Azriel hummed, spreading his wings a bit wider. Soon they were stretched out fully, and he squirmed at the undeniable pleasure of it.

Mor slit open her eyes, glancing at her mate, near dozing next to her. It had been a long while since she'd seen him so relaxed, and it thrilled her to no end. Az send a happy current down the bond, which Mor returned fondly. Her thoughts turned wicked though, when she gazed upon his extended wings. She stood up slowly, making sure not to alert Az, which was surprisingly easy when he was half asleep.

Mor stepped over him so she was straddling his back, and he didn't budge an inch in surprise. He merely adjusted, getting accustomed to the addition of her weight.

"What 're you doin'?" he grumbled, words slurred in his meditative state.

"Just relax, Az," Mor cooed. She ran her hands down his broad shoulders, trying to get a feel for where to begin. She decided to start just below his shoulderblade, working her knuckles into the tight muscles. Mor let her fingers brush against the connective tissue of his wings every now and then, enjoying the way he shivered and purred. When he was well and truly like putty in her hands, she finally let her hands drift closer to the membranous sails now left so exposed to her.

Azriel tensed beneath her when her nails scraped slightly against the bone, then melted again with a huff. Mor gently traced the latticework of veins and arteries in the paper-thin skin, her touch gentle and feather-light. Az's wings were taut now, pulled out to their full length.

She teased at the bond again, eliciting another response from him. He shifted uncomfortably when his member pricked against his stomach. He didn't like being pinned to the ground, but with Mor it was different. Exciting even.

 _I'm always exciting._

Azriel rumbled impatiently. _Get on with it,_ he seemed to say.

Mor huffed a laugh, pressing her mouth to the juncture between the wings. One of her hands slid downward, towards the pooling in her core, while the other caressed the membrane softly. Az growled when Mor leaned forward, her breath hot against the sensitive flesh. She grazed her lips against leathery hide and he growled again.

"Stop teasing," he grated.

Smiling, Mor let up. She felt along the length of the wing, hand still moving through her folds, and moved her mouth over him. She licked a line up the edge of a bone, feeling ridges and bumps slide against her tongue. Azriel groaned and grasped a fistfull of sand. It leaked out of his fingers, him breathing hard and fast.

"Mor, I—" He cut off with another groan when Mor brought the hand that had been working herself up against the skin of his wing. Her fingers slid easily with the addition of her wetness, and Az nearly came with the thought.

He rolled them over suddenly, Mor now beneath him. He kissed her, wings still spread as she continued to touch him. Azriel was eager. He softly let a scarred hand trail down her stomach and brush against her slickness. She was wet already from her previous ministrations, setting him on fire. He reattached his lips to hers, gently stroking.

She gasped and turned her head to the side when he inserted two fingers into her. Azriel pressed his lips to her neck, tracing lazy patterns against the creamy flesh. Slowly, torturously slow, he moved in and out, kissing her throughout the whole thing. His tongue flicked against her clavicle, and she moaned.

Mor thought she might shatter from the impossible pressure in her stomach. The knot tightened and loosened in time to Azriel's fingers, each time looping just a little harder. She groaned when he moved his thumb against her clit, pressing down and then rubbing circles. His mouth returned to her own, and she found it was hard to kiss him when she had to break away to gasp every few seconds.

The knot wound tighter as Azriel upped his pace, hand moving in time with his mouth. The rhythm had Mor flying higher and higher, until finally, she fell. She nearly shoved Az away when the wave crashed through her. It was fast and intense, a sudden jolt of pleasure, leaving her twitching and sensitive afterwards. It felt good though, so much so that even though her physical body was of half a mind to hurl her mate off a cliff, her female mind screamed for more attention.

Azriel somehow seemed to understand this strange phenomenon, soothing his hands against her sides. The touch was amplified by the aftershock of orgasm, and the tingling started up again when she felt the evidence of his arousal.

"You never let me finish with you," Mor murmured, eyes closed.

"Didn't you just?" he asked playfully.

She hid her smirk and blindly reached behind his back. Membranous flesh met her fingertips, and he shuddered. "No more talk from you, bat-boy," Mor ordered, hand still moving against his wings.

When he came, it was with great heaving breaths and undulating hips. It took longer than either of them expected, much to Mor's delight and his chagrin. They sat now, as they usually did after sex, she embraced in his arms, back pressed against his chest.

He idly played with her hair, running through the honey-blond strands. "Love you," Mor said softly as they watched the sun set over the water.

Azriel hummed deep in his throat, wings splayed haphazardly across the sand. He pulled her closer against him and rested his chin atop her head. He didn't say it but the words hung thick in the air. And as the sun slipped below the horizon, she was happy.


	5. TOG and ACOMAF Cross (Slight Rowaelin)

**Just wanted to apologize for any previous format complications. I was too lazy to edit, but now I finally got around to it (I'm supposed to be sleeping). XD LOL. School days.**

Rowan was not having a good time. This gods-damned _ball_. She must've done this as punishment for something. Why else would Aelin send an invitation to nearly all of his cousins—how she had managed it when she'd met barely a quarter of them, he'd never know—plus every Fae with half a title to his name? He's been in this same situation hundreds of times over. The subject assumed that the rest of the people gathered knew the reason behind the event, and so didn't even bother asking. The result was a bunch of drunk, sex-addled adults making fools of themselves at every given moment.

Rowan wished he could strangle someone.

The wine glass had gone lukewarm, and he wondered why he was still holding the damned thing. He wallowed in self pity for a few seconds, before a tap on his shoulder had him whirling. It was Aelin, stunning in a gown of deep blue, with black kohl lining her lids, a light flush of pink dusting her cheeks from all the dancing she'd been doing. Her eyes were bright and sparkling with mirth.

"So uptight, prince," she murmered. "I haven't seen you this flustered since Remelle—"

Rowan growled, and the wine glass cracked, sending scarlet drops down his fingers. "Don't play with me, Fireheart. Today you dragged me from my bed at fourth bell. The sun wasn't even _up yet_. It's now twelth bell. I've been here for eight _fucking_ hours, and there's absolutely nothing you can say that will make it better." He was quiet for a moment, then grated, "And it wasn't my fault Remelle was in the way."

Aelin, who had just plucked the wine from his hand, choked and spewed the vintage all over the floor. She pounded a fist on her thigh and broke into a fit of silent laughter. Rowan looked around hastily, trying to shield her from the view of any curious subjects. _Queen, indeed_.

"In, in the—" Aelin tried. She took a deep breath. "In the way? Rowan, you rutting _pushed_ her in front of that poor man! And his face! Ha! He looked absolutely horrified. Though of course, also a bit giddy with a beautiful, albeit flour-covered, Fae female straddling him." She paused, brow furrowing. "Hm. Gods-damned males," she muttered. "Only one thing on their minds."

Rowan felt his lip threaten to curl into a snarl, his temper was so frayed, but... He sighed, let out a breathy chuckle and shook his head. "Call me soft, but I can't even stay mad at you."

Aelin showed her teeth and curled around him, cat-like. "It's because I'm so irresistable."

"Mm." He didn't deny it. "So," he questioned, pulling Aelin close to his chest, "is there any actual purpose to this torture?"

"Yes," her breath ghosted his ear, "there actually is." She nipped at his neck, teeth grazing just above his thrumming artery.

"Well?"

Aelin pulled back and dammit, she was beautiful when she laughed. "You win, prince. I did all this because—" Before she could say anything, the sea of people parted to reveal six figures, three males, three females. "Because of them," she finished, grinning.

The males could have passed as brothers, all with dark hair and broad shoulders. The third, however, had eyes the most brilliant shade of violet where the other two sported hazel. Rowan's attention shifted immediately to the first female, beautiful, with golden hair that fell past her breasts. The second stood shoulder to shoulder with the violet-eyed male. Their scents were interwined, the relationship deep and complex, the mirror to his and Aelin's. Mates, then. The final female was...terrifying. He averted his gaze.

"Mor! Feyre!" Aelin cried, prancing forward to embrace the two _normal_ females. They both returned the hug, laughing. The blonde whispered something in Aelin's ear, and she jerked her head up, eyes shooting to Rowan and then to the violet-eyed male. She muttered something back, to which all three snorted.

"Would you like to inform us as to what exactly you ladies are talking about?" the violet-eyed male asked, voice rolling smooth over the syllables.

Three pairs of eyes narrowed on the male, three growls so menacing ripping through the silence that all the males were stepping back. And then mirroring expressions of smug satisfaction, the same emotion even in the gleaming silver orbs of the monsterous thing.

After a moment of tense quiet, Aelin giggled and looked at the raven-haired male as if she hadn't just looked ready to tear his throat out. "This one's yours then, Feyre? Quite the catch you've reeled in." She looked him up and down appreciatively.

Rowan bit back a retort.

"Yes, he's mine," Feyre said, smiling devilishly. "Rhys escaped my first trap, so I ended up ensnaring him the old fashioned way."

Mor grinned. "With rope and a tree."

They howled with laughter, and the sound made his blood run cold. _How could the Mother create something so terrible_?

When they'd finished, Aelin turned her line of attack on the other two males, who'd been standing in stone-cold silence until this point. Likely they were as petrified as he was, and they were doing their best to hide it. Females. "You two...Cassian and Azriel?"

They both nodded imperceptibly, at the same time. Aelin laughed. "You practiced that, didn't you?"

"No," the violet-eyed one, Rhys, said. "They just do things like that."

"Hm," Aelin cocked her head at the one engulfed in shadow. "Well, if Mor and Azriel are lovers—and you both will be when I'm through with you," she ignored Mor's protests and Azriel's sudden tensing, "that leaves only Cassian."

"What do you mean _leaves_?" he asked cautiously.

"Why, to be the next victim of matchmaker," Feyre trilled.

"Yes, Cassian, when are you and Amren getting together?" Mor asked.

Amren moved slowly, a horrifying smile plastered on her face, and Rowan thought the creature looked odd without any blood staining her teeth. She stopped just in front of Cassian, who seemed to have stopped breathing, and sniffed once. She wrinkled her nose and took a step back as if mollified. "His blood is much too sweet. I'd have a stomach ache for weeks. Which reminds me, I haven't eaten in nearly as long." She waggled her fingers and was gone in a plume of smoke, but Rowan thought he could still make out the outline of her silver eyes.

Cassian let out the biggest sigh, his body seeming to sag. "Gods, Feyre. I thought I was dead."

"You probably are," Azriel muttered, and where Rhys' voice was like water flowing over stones, his was deep and dark, filled with promises of midnight caresses and whispered words, like satiny velvet.

From behind came a whistle. "Damn, that voice. Gets my ovaries pumping. How do you resist it, Mor?" Lysandra made her way into the group in that casual way of hers and smirked.

"Lys!" Mor, Feyre, and Aelin all jumped on her in the same way they had during first introductions. "Come to terrorize the males with us?" Feyre asked.

"Oh, yes. I think I'm up for round two."

"Who was it?" Aelin asked eagerly.

"Aedion."

They giggled.

"How is it that you all know each other?" Rowan asked, deeply disturbed by this whole turn of events. "And why did you never tell me, Aelin?"

Aelin _tsked_. "Oh, Rowan, you're not my mother. You don't need to know about every single person I meet." He would beg to differ. "And if you must know," Aelin huffed, "we met a long while back. It was one of my missions in Rifthold and I met them in a tavern. They were the only ones who were drunk as I was. Something about waking up with a splitting headache sandwhiched between two strangers does something to kickstart a friendship. This was the first opportunity I had to reunite with them since then."

Rowan pinched the bridge of his nose. "So you're saying you never found it necessary to tell me of the very obviously dangerous friends you met on a mission that I didn't know about? And why did it have to be a ball? The clothing they make you wear is ridiculous. Absolutely no efficiency. And especially when you're exposed to so many people in one room. Any one of them could be about to kill you. And this shirt is damned itchy." He shut his mouth when he realized he was blathering.  
They were all staring at him, with varying expressions of amusement. Rhys lips curved slightly in an amused smile, and he nodded his understanding to Rowan.

Cassian and Azriel held the same knowing looks.

Lysandra said, "Come on, let's go and steal all the chocolates."

"Mm, yes," Aelin licked her lips. They scurried away, arms linked, towards the confection stand.

The remaining few stood awkwardly. Rowan shifted his weight. On any other occasion, he would've been perfectly fine to brood in sullen silence until Aelin returned, loath to talk to strangers, let alone powerful males. But these...already he felt a camaraderie with them. He could respect these people, he thought. Perhaps he already did. They all shared their scars, whether inside or outside. Azriel's hands and Rhys' tired smile could attest for that. So maybe, Rowan decided, he would try.

"Let's start over," he said suddenly, offering his hand. "Rowan Whitethorn."

"Rhys."

"Cassian."

"Azriel."

They appraised each other, and none looked disappointed by what they saw. Another moment passed before Cassian said, "Any of you want to get out of here?"

"Yep."

"Mm-hmm."

"Let's go."

A grin finally broke through Cassian's tension, and Rowan caught a glimpse of the male beneath. They left.


	6. UPDATE

Is anyone still actually reading this? Someone tell me, cuz I dunno man. School's getting heavy and I want to know if I should continue this


	7. Seduction (Moriel NSFW)

**LOL. I have a thing now. I didn't edit this... I'm soooorry. Just too lazy. It's 12 PM. So whatever. Enjoy some more Moriel smut.**

 **-Arya**

For the first time in two centuries, Azriel's self-control was failing. Rhys had called for a meeting in the Court of Nightmares, and this visit had been particularly nighmarish. That was to say that Keir showed up more than he usually did, and that alone sent Azriel into a brooding rage. Mor's father stayed well clear from his wrath, but the shadowsinger glared at him throughout the entirety of the session. Cassian, it seemed, was trying not to laugh. Arms crossed, standing in the deep gloom of the corner, it was almost impossible to make out the ghost of a smile, but Az caught it. That was what he was trained for, after all.

When he'd come home, pissed and ready to strangle something, he'd headed straight to the training rink. A new idea—from Cas of all people—had renovated the entire place. Where before only a simple clearing had served as their fighting space, it was now split into seperate section. The whole place was perhaps triple as large as it had been before, equipped with organized weaponry in each station. There was also a spot to release excess magic. That one was encased in a shield, property of Rhysand, just in case things got out of hand. Even with all the urbanization and development, Az found himself more often than not returning to the same station: the replica of the original. Simple, but it suited his purpose just fine.

He walked past the long line of blades, each one gleaming like a row of dragon teeth. He stripped his shirt off and shook out his wings, chest hollowing out in room of more air as he stepped in front of the dummy. After thirty minutes, his body was covered in a light sheen of sweat, and his breath came in rough pants. "Whoa, slow down there, tiger," a voice chirped from behind. Azriel turned, face already twisting into a snarl, before immediately he relaxed. Mor, in leather pants and a black shirt, sauntered up from behind and tossed him a waterskin. He took it gratefully, drinking deeply and swiping a hand across his mouth when he was through. "Thank you," he said quietly. A rare thing indeed for people to show him a simple kindness.

"Of course," Mor replied, face softening into that smile he loved. And just like that, the darkness was back.

 _Not worthy. Not worthy_ , the shadows chanted. And so he was not.

"I need to go see to some things," he muttered, brushing past Mor and trying to stifle the shiver that ran through him when a stray strand of hair tickled his shoulder. Mor's expression didn't change, but he could practically feel the dissapointment oozing off her.

He tried to ignore it.

#

He made his way down the hallway to his rooms. He passed Cassian's, then Rhys'. He hurried by as quickly as possible when strange noises greeted his ears. Feyre and her "fun." His quarters were seperate from theirs. His was filed deeper under the mountain, buried away in a secret nook that provided both privacy and quiet. Rhys had been worried at his seclusion at first, but Az had explained it to him, and his High Lord had not questioned him after that.

After a stressful day in the Court of Nighmares, all he wanted to do was sleep. Azriel opened the door, hand already unlacing his breeches in preperation of a hot summer night, before stopping short halfway into the room. Mor lay on his bed, leg swinging off the side as if she had every right to be here and was expecting him to bring dinner and a show.

Azriel fumbled with the laces on his pants for a minute, silently thanking his nimble fingers when he managed to stay only half-naked at least. He thought Mor almost pouted at that, but his attention was soon caught by other, more important things. Like the sheer lace she wore. Red, and very small. The tailor who'd made this had probably used scraps of his cut-up tablecloth to fashion it. Damn, she looked good.

"Mor..." Azriel started hesitantly. Was there a kind way to tell someone to get the hell out? Or to tell his eyes to stop wandering? But...rutting hell, his self-control was in tatters. _Damn._

And when she slipped off the bed and came closer, he inhaled sharply, and he could smell what she wanted. Mor pressed herself against him. "I want you, Azriel." Fuck, her voice was like honey dripping sweet. "I _want_ you."

His reached for her nearly without thinking, hands grasping her hips oh-so gently, even through the haze of lust.

Her face inched closer to his, molten brown eyes piercing his own, seeking the truth of his soul. He braced himself at what she would find there, the black and putrid remains of a boy who looked at the stars and wished to fly. But she didn't even flinch. Hot breath fanned over his lips, and in the confines of his pants, his cock twitched.

She kissed him. Hard. Azriel could barely breathe, let alone think enough to stop her. Her scent was intoxicating, so much more so than other times. _Mate,_ the shadows whispered, and for once he accepted them, for surely nothing else could feel this way, no matter how impossible it seemed.

Mor broke away suddenly, gasping. She clutched at his back, lips parted. "Azriel, I heard them. Your shadows."

A weight settled in the pit of his stomach. She knew. She knew and she...she kissed him again, pulling him to the ground in her enthusiasm. Mor straddled him, letting her hands run along his chest. When she ground her core against him, he groaned.

"Oh, gods, I love you, Mor," he gasped out. Restraint gone under the torturous movement of her hips, he felt no remorse at saying it. He wasn't even surprised when she responded with the same words, even more emphatically than he had.

"Let me touch you," she breathed, fingers ghosting between his abs.

He locked eyes with her, and tested the new bond between them.

 _I trust you, Mor._

Azriel's wings uncoiled from beneath his back, straining against the weight of another body on top of him. His mate's mouth parted as she beheld him. She leaned forward eagerly, kissing down the side of his neck towards the top of his shoulder, hips rolling into his all the while. She teased him torturously, breasts pressing against his chest beneath the thin shred of fabric, tongue working up to the membranous point just above.

When finally she reached where he wished her to go, his entire body went rigid and he groaned, low and long. Mor's hands moved up from his abdomen towards the other wing. Pleasure racked his body, and it was too much, with her on top of him like that. He came in seconds, beating his record even from his first time as a lusty teen.

Mor laughed breathily. "That's got to be the quickest I've ever seen anyone come."

Azriel, regaining his breath, managed, "See what it's like with wings."

She suddenly looked thoughtful. "I wonder..."

"What?"

"If you let hot water run over them, is that enough to get you off?"

Azriel recoiled. " _What?_ No."

"Have you ever tried it?"

"No, but—"

"Then we don't know, do we?" she interrupted. When she got no reply, " _Do we?"_

 _"_ No," he muttered.

A second of Mor running soothing circles along his sweat-soaked skin, before he realized what they had just done and a grin broke out. "Fuck, that was a long wait."

Mor groaned and let her body fall on top of his. "Tell me about it."

 **Oh, and thanks to everyone who posted a review to continue! It really made me smile like a giddy fool. :) Special thanks and shoutout to _Aisa1107_ for sending a really sweet and awesome note. Love you all!**


	8. Lord and Lady (Jealous Moriel)

**So I just have this idea that Azriel is actually really aggressive when it comes to Mor. I don't know man, he just gives me these vibes.** Shiver. So here we are, jealous Azriel! (Sorry, did not edit. Don't give** **a crap LOL.)**

Azriel had been complaining to Mor all day. Even though he hated it, she had insisted they take a walk on such a beautiful day. The trees were blossoming with the end of winter, and the smell of meadow flowers blew on the breeze. Unfortunately, they were not the only ones to have thought today was a good day for a stroll.  
The male was tall, broad. His blond hair was clipped short, just long enough to curl behind his ears. Thick, corded muscles were evident beneath the thin jerkin, other things even more prominent below the belt. In other words, he was a stud. Perhaps it was his sour mood, but Azriel felt the deep tug of loathing even before the next series of events.

As the male's blue-rimmed gaze found Mor, and lingered, Azriel choked back a snarl.  
Mor, for her part, wasn't fazed in the slightest under the scrutiny. In fact, she smirked right back and gave him a very obvious once-over. "Who are you?" she asked. And her voice took on that low, heady tone that sent every one of Azriel's nerve endings on fire.  
 _Shit_.

 _Mor_ , he sent along the bond. _What are you doing_?

She didn't answer, and he mentally cursed.

 _Fucking instincts. Why now?_ A distracted realization, he noticed that his inner-voice was rather whiny when it was faced with problems that dealt with Mor. Needy, too. Like a two-year-old child.

"I am Matthias," the male said smoothly. He seemed almost about to bow, then thought better of it. "Would you tell me your name, lady?"

"What if I didn't?" And damn her, that voice, those tight pants she wore, smoldering chocolate eyes that, for once, were not looking at him. Mor stepped close to the blond, tilting her head back to retain eye-contact as she slid a finger down his forearm.

Azriel noticed the change in the male, noticed how his eyes flared, his muscles tensed, hands falling to her hips. "That would be perfectly okay. If you'd let me learn other things about you, that is." His words held promise, as did the telltale lowering of his head towards hers.

Azriel, who'd stood fuming a few paces behind, couldn't contain himself any longer. A growl ripped from his throat, and he took a menacing step forward. The male— _Matthias_ —looked up as if just noticing him, and fuck him for the condesending curl of his lip and innefectual turn of his head. He could practically hear the unspoken words, the wondering why a beautiful lady would allow a mangy dog to trail after her. A dirty animal.

Well.

He could play that part when the time arose. Azriel snarled again, a wild gleam in his eye, wings slowly unfurling out behind him. Shadows curled around his body, and his siphons glowed. With his teeth bared, saliva glistening off his incisors, wings outstretched, he was certainly a sight to behold. If he hadn't been so caught up with the blond bastard, he would've noticed that Mor had disentangled herself from the other male, and her lips were parted in awe.

"Get away from her," his voice liquid night, leaking aggression.

Matthias had the decency to appear affronted, even going so far as to take a step back, to which Azriel grinned savagely. Yes, definitely an animal. "Get away from her," he repeated, "before I rip your throat out."

The blond held his hands up placatingly, but the beginnings of a cocky smirk took hold of his mouth. "As you say, lord." His words were too-polite, and Azriel hated the way he said _lord_ when he so clearly wasn't. "But surely it's up to the lady to decide who she takes to her bed. No decent person would withold choice from anyone. Wouldn't you agree?"

Azriel clenched his fists and bit out, "Yes, _surely_ , but not if you're practically raping her."

"Azriel, he was not," Mor chided, and both males whipped around to face her, grimaces marring their features. The female chuckled deprecatingly. "You males. I know where this is going." She leaned back against the trunk of a tree. "Feel free to take your shirts off when you spar."

Twin growls and another feminine laugh.

Despite their open display of hostility, both males removed their shirts, revealing chiseled torsos and broad shoulders. Mor wasn't complaining. No weapons were drawn as the two faced each other. This was a battle of dominance, as old as the mating bond and the entirety of their race.

Azriel attacked first. Lightning quick, he hurtled towards Matthias. They went down hard, grappling on the muddy ground. Fists flew, and blood spattered the ground. Grunts of pain rose from the tangled mass on the floor, yet despire the intensity of the fight, it was only Matthias who let the noises loose. Azriel was razor sharp, in control, even in the midst of a fight. When they came up, panting, both their eyes gleamed maniacally with the euphoric rush of adrenaline.

They hit the floor again, this time with Matthias on top. But Azriel wouldn't let him win. He thought of Mor, that she was watching. Then he forced himself to think of the male crushing him to the ground, how he'd spoken so lewdly to his Mate. Not once did it cross his mind that Mor had initiated first. With a rush of air from his lungs, he heaved Matthias off him. Azriel rolled onto his side and was up in an instant, knee pressing against the blond's chest as his had been only moments before.  
Matthias' abdomen strained against the knee, but he fell back with a _thud_ , utterly spent.

Giddy, Azriel leaned down and snarled in his ear. "Don't touch her again."

Satisfied that the message had been given, Azriel stood up and swept sweaty hair from his forehead. His gaze sought out the one he'd wrangled for, and blinked.  
Behind Mor lay a gaggle of women. They tittered and fanned their faces, flushing. They'd even gone so far as to bring out snacks, popcorn and chocolates, because of course that combination made sense. Next to Mor was Feyre, also joining in on this rather surprising display of coquettish behavior. She whispered something to which at least four or five broke out giggling, including his Mate. Feeling his stare, Mor glanced up.

Her molten brown eyes were bright with amusement and…something else. She stood up and excused herself from the group. None seemed to notice, except Feyre, who hid a smile behind her hand.

When Mor sauntered over, Azriel's pupils dilated and his breathing changed. It boggled his mind, the effect she had on him. So easily, too. She pressed herself against him and grinned mischievously. "Jealous yet?" she asked flirtatiously, and she used the same voice she had on Matthias before.

"Oh, you have no idea," he growled, pulling her closer. The sweat on his chest seeped through the fabric of her shirt, flattening her breasts against his chest. "Mor," he breathed, peppering light kisses along her neck. "You smell wonderful."

"And you smell like a horse," she said breathily.

He huffed a laugh and let her feel the evidence of his desire. Her breath hitched.

"Can we go? Right now, if possible."

She licked her lips, and winnowed.

 **Leave a review if you have a request! Thank you, lovelies!**

 **-Arya**


	9. Heated (Feysand smut)

**Okay, so I have no idea where this came from, but I needed some smut to brighten up my day. It's short and I wrote it in literally five minutes, but wtf, who cares. Enjoy! UNEDITED. Ugh, i need some proofreading skills.**

 **-Arya**

* * *

"Why do you always argue with me," Rhys growled, shoving her skirt up past her hips. The wood of the table was cool and hard against her heated flesh, but she didn't much care right now. Her mate stood between her legs, sweaty and flushed from their disagreement.

"Because you're an idiot," Feyre snarled against his lips. Her hands moved up and down across the expanse of his back, and she purred in satisfaction when she felt the muscles tense and flex beneath her fingers. His hand wasted no time in pushing past her panties and finding her clit. It had her gasping, the fast pace he set, quick, tight circles with his thumb, two fingers stretching inside her.

"Gods, Rhys," she groaned.

"You know I'm right," he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head, eyes slipping shut as his nail skirted that magical spot. He pumped in and out as she gasped and moaned, sending her ratcheting up and up. He pulled out before she could come, slipping his head between her thighs just as smoothly. She could only watch and wait as he kissed a line up her leg. It was infuriating, how slow and gentle he was after his aggressive behavior. She could still see the fire of their quarrel in his eyes as he locked gazes with her.

She choked on a curse when something thick and wet dragged across her slit. His tongue, working slow and even as he watched her fall apart. Feyre clutched at his hair, squirming. Usually, she didn't think during sex. Her mind was blank and hazy. But right now, Rhys was breaching that fog, sending her images and scenarios that had her flushing. The realization that he was her mate, that he was working the most intimate part of her, it had her digging her nails into his scalp.

Rhys growled and nipped at her flesh, making her jump. Feyre, he warned, and she felt him suppress an emotion, shielding it from her.

With a jolt, she realized what it was. Even as she moaned, her lips curved into a smirk. She dug her nails deeper, enjoying the sound he made, and suddenly ripped herself from his embrace. His chin was dewy from her slickness, and she licked her lips invitingly.

"Feyre," he said, aloud this time, and the same emotion washed down the bond, undefended this time. She felt him reach desperately for it afterwards, but it was too late.

A feline smile etched itself across her features. "Desire, Rhys? Why so self-conscious?" She scooted closer to him, still on her back. Her slick core made contact with his bare chest as her ankles locked behind his back. His breath caught when she shifted her hips, wetness leaving a glistening trail across his abdomen. Even though she asked the question, she knew the answer. He always felt need and want when they tangled with each other. It was just that now, it was different. There was no love in this desire, only animal lust.

"It doesn't bother you?" he asked hoarsely.

"Not at all," she murmured, pulling his head down harshly for a kiss. Something snapped in him and he crushed her against him, sinking his teeth into her lip. Feyre responded in kind, undulating against the bulge in his pants. He broke the kiss with a huff, hot breath fanning across her cheek in sharp pants. His eyes were dark and predatory when they raked down her form.

He was out of his pants in a second, pressing her against the table and filling her senses with him, only him. Feyre breathed him in and let out a stuttering breath as he pushed into her. Slow for only one thrust before his pace turned desperate. She couldn't find the strength to move as pleasure coarsed through her, but Rhys didn't seem to mind. His hand traveled to her clit as he sped up, fangs sinking into her neck.

She swore and grappled at his back when she came, waiting for him to follow. It took barely any time at all before he spilled his seed inside her. "Feyre," Rhys said reverantly, fingers catching on sweaty strands of hair as he stroked her face. Catching her breath, she asked huskily, "What were we arguing about?"

"Cassian's birthday," Rhys said, a grin slipping through.

"Shit," she muttered. "How did we get here?"

"No idea, but I'm fine with it."

After a moment, she nodded. "Definitely."

Another pause before Rhys says, "Can we argue more often?"


	10. Remorse (Nesta angst)

**A tumblr ask I found from greenfire2908art. Rhys revealing the trials to Nesta and Elain after a fight. I took a bunch of liberties with the trials. Enjoy!**

 ***Updated and edited a few stuff :)**

 **-Arya**

"Fuck you," Nesta said quietly, viciously. "All of you."

They—the inner circle, Azriel, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, Mor, the Archeron sisters, and Rhys—were in a large dining hall. Just prior to this argument, the place had been filled with smiling faces and raucous laughter. Just prior. Then, as the quips and jibes grew more and more heated, more and more serious, they'd filed out one by one. What had been a harmless joke about the change in Nesta's body since she'd been turned into a Fae had sobered any of the good spirits she might have been feeling. Talking to the others, exchanging sarcastic comments with Morrigan and Azriel, she could almost forget. One mention of the monster she was, and all that vanished. Her mood turned sour, and the things she'd had tolerance for were now blaring sirens against her throbbing headache. And when Rhys finally asked what was wrong, she snapped.

"I hate this," she snarled, gesturing furiously at the ornate tablecloths, the fancy food, the once-beautiful chandeliers that were now garrish and disgusting. "You party and jest as if a war is not taking place outside your window. Just this morning three children were murdered by invading forces. Yesterday a group of girls had their throats slit after being raped. These things happen every day with increasing frequency. So go on, _party_." She shook her head. "Ignore it for as long as you can. You'll all be dead by night's end."

Dead silence.

Elain had a hand to her mouth, Azriel and Cassian both wore unreadable expressions, Amren raised an eyebrow, Mor glared. And Feyre...her eyes gleamed sad, the dissapointment clear. Nesta looked away, couldn't stand to see the pity there. Rhys finally broke the quiet, voice low and soft, "And what would you have us do instead, Nesta?"

"I don't know," she said petulantly. "Not—not _this_."

" _This_ ," Rhys said, "is how we keep ourselves sane. _This_ is how we keep from going weeks without sleep, for surely if we didn't have distraction, we'd die of grief. And if you must look at it in a practical way, then this is to keep the hope of the people, show them that we are not afraid, no matter how much of a lie that is."

Nesta ground her teeth. She hated the way the High Lord managed to prove himself compassionate and kind despite her earlier assumptions. "We can't just stand here," she growled. "People are dying. They're dying, and we're _celebrating_. It doesn't matter the intentions if nothing gets done. If we do nothing, we're no better than them. People are dying," she repeated.

"Yes, people are dying," Rhys said, voice rising. "And I ask again, what would you have us do that we aren't already?"

"And I'll answer again. Not this."

Rhys stood, violet eyes flashing as his chair knocked back against the wall. "I do care for them," he hissed. "Every single one, down to the lowest peasant."

"Don't read my mind," she said, matching him for venom. She could feel his fury building like a tangible thing, and her own purred in response. A cruel smirk marred her face as shadows fluttered into existence, feathering at the edges of her vision. They weren't Azriel's.

"I care for them," Rhys repeated, ignoring her. He stepped closer, beautiful face terrifying in his halo of darkness. "But there is nothing more to do." At this, frustration colored his features, darkening, deepening the shadows. "They are dying, and I...I don't know what to do." His face fell further still, his rage faltering at this confession.

Mor took a step forward, opened her mouth as if to comfort him, but Azriel caught her hand and shook his head. She looked as crestfallen as her cousin.

Their sorrow fueled Nesta's fire, filling her with sadistic glee. "You don't know what to do, so you get drunk and fuck my sister?" And there was another subtle hint, scorn for his so-called mating bond. It felt like theft, like he'd plucked the one she loved from under her nose.

"Nesta—" Elain said quietly, but was cut off.

The snarl that ripped from Rhys' mouth had the whole room on their feet, weapons half-drawn, searching for danger. There was none. Only her. A ripple of shame washed through her, that she was acting like this, but she shoved it aside.

"Don't talk about her like that," he said, aggression leaking from his words. "Like she's some whore."

She knew she was pushing it, knew she was baiting him, but— "She might as well be."

"Nesta, stop," Feyre cut in sharply, using that infuriating tone, condescending with no intention other than to make you feel small and placid. She was neither.

"Shut up!" she snapped, gaze never leaving those of the High Lord.

His eyes were wild, and for once he was anything but put together. "Take you're own words to heart," he hissed, "and let me show you, dear Archeron, just how much your sister's done for you." Rhysand's darkness burst forth in a great wave, roiling and crashing. It was anything but gentle, twisting and swirling violently like a storm at sea, and she was thrown and knocked about like the lone ship that dared brave the ocean's wrath.

She felt claws take hold of her mind, grasping and holding. A foreign being creeped in through the edges of her consciousness, taking control of her being and cramming the essence of her into the corner. _Watch and_ _see_.

The beginnings of an image fell in front of her eyes, watery and mist-shrouded. As the seconds crept on, forms took shape and smudges of color. Bright red was the first thing she saw, crimson the color of blood. As the picture cleared, she realized it was a mane of red hair, attached to a rather plain face. Bright eyes beneath thick lashes. Her lips were twisted in a wicked smile. She kneeled over a body, a knife in hand. The body belonged to a female with caramel hair. Her clothes were torn and ragged, leaving nothing unexposed. Apparantly, dignity had been lost, because the woman made no move to cover herself. Blood matted her brown locks, cuts and bruises peppering her skin. The crimson-haired woman brought the blade down, the tip caressing. She whispered something, and the prone female gasped as the blade sank just past the protective layer of skin. A drop of blood leaked from the corner of the wound.

The shredded body groaned and let her head roll to the side. Nesta's breath hitched. The eyes were glazed, but inmistakable. Crystal blue. "Feyre," she breathed.

Then that was...

Amarantha smiled. Feyre's chest rose and fell in quick, sharp gasps. Blood oozed from many wounds. In the background, she could hear Rhys weeping. The she-devil turned her face in his direction, eyes roving up and down his body, defeated though it was. The High Lord, usually so strong and cocky, was kneeling on the marble floor. He knelt to know one. His wings drooped and his head was bowed, like a dark, fallen prince.

"Rhysand," Amarantha purred, dropping the dagger and leaving Feyre in a heap on the floor. She approached him, stopping just an inch in front. She let her fingers trace his shoulders, arms. Then her other hand came up, fingers stopping just beneath her chin. A sharp jerk had his eyes meeting her own. She kissed him, not passionately, not lovingly, but determined and firm. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she knew just how much Rhys hated it. "Pleasure me, Rhysand," she murmured, eyes deep and dark and savage.

Rhys dropped his gaze to the floor as his mistress threw her kneck back and straddled him. The tears didn't stop falling even as he grasped her hips and ground against her. The sadness did not leave as she took advantage of his body, selfish and uncaring. She was violent and perhaps it was seeing the most powerful High Lord at the mercy of a bitch that had Nesta speechless.

"Stop," a hoarse voice called from behind. Amarantha groaned and shuddered, spent, and lazily rolled her neck to stare, heavy-lidded, at the source. Feyre was propped up on her elbows, soot-stained and covered in dirt. Her cheeks were gaunt and her eyes were spooked. It was exactly how she'd looked when she'd returned from Tamlin's estate. "Stop," she said again.

Amarantha only laughed and stood, leaving Rhys in the same fashion she had Feyre. Her toys. Both for pleasure, both with pain. "Stop?" she asked, still chuckling. "Who will make me?" And then the knife was back, carving and etching nonsense patterns until Feyre was too tired to scream anymore.

The vision didn't stop there. The darkness sent images, horrible images, each more terrible than the last. It showed bodies piled on top of each other, so high as to form a wall. Decaying bones in a cell, rats feasting on the last scraps of flesh. Feyre, yelling profanities and curses. Rhys, his wings shredded. Amarantha, cackling behind them, her face looming. The first Trial until the last. Feyre's arm, twisted and swollen. And then the sound of her neck breaking, Rhys' roar of rage, and all the while Amarantha was laughing.

Abruptly, the vision ended. Nesta stumbled, leaned against the wall. "Gods," she whispered. Vaguely, she saw the rest of the inner circle with matching expressions of shock and horror. All except Amren, who's countenance remained blank.

Rhys was panting heavily, though not from exertion. It sounded more like he was hyperventilating. " _That_ is what she's done for you. All of you." Elain blinked back tears, staring hard at something behind Nesta. Nesta turned her head slowly, mind reeling with everything she'd seen. So much worse than she'd thought. And then she saw her sister.

"Feyre," she whispered hoarsely. She was High Lady no more, only a broken thing, a helpless girl. She might as well have been human for how frail and small she looked. Her eyes were dazed, tear-lines streaked her cheeks, but no sobs arose from her. She was silent as the rest of them. Her breathing, contrary to Rhys', was deep and even. Almost, she looked like a statue.

"Feyre," Rhys said, lurching a step forward, apology clear in every line of his body. But she didn't respond, only stared at the ground. Her Mate clenched his fists, and even Mor was at a loss of what to do.

After a moment of unbearably tense silence, Feyre looked up, salty beads of water still running down. "It's so much worse now," she said softly. And then she vanished.

"Damn it," Rhys spat violently. He was taught all over, as if he had energy inside that couldn't be released. "Mor, where's she gone?"

His Third was silent, then shook her head. "I don't know." Her normally musical chirp was low and choked with emotion. "I can't feel her."

Rhys cursed again and began pacing. Nesta was just starting to realize he did that whenever he was nervous. "I don't know—I don't know what to do." He ran a hand through his black hair, and pulled anxiously. "I never know what to do."

Azriel stepped from behind and placed a hand on his shoulder. He took it gratefully, accepting the comfort. Cassian did the same on the other side, offering a few quiet words.

"I didn't mean—" Rhys started.

"It's not your fault," Mor said sharply. "You did what you did because you were provoked. Anyone else would've done the same."

Though the words were not said, only implied, Nest felt it blaringly obvious. Not Rhys' fault, but her own. The trickle of shame from before became a tsunami, slamming into her with sudden force. She had not been raised like this. She didn't take joy in pain, especially not that of loved ones. It was her own trickery that had caused this whole tangled mess, and now there was nothing to be done.

With Mor's words, each of the inner circle glanced at Nesta. Mor leered, molten brown eyes hot enough to burn. She turned her back, took her cousin's hand and winnowed, probably in search of Feyre. Azriel followed soon after. Amren had disappeared mysteriously. Cassian lingered, pain clouding his features. He looked unsure, lips parted as if to offer a pitiful condelence that would undoubtedly make her feel worse.

"Go," she said sharply, not meaning a word of what she said. "I don't need pity from a wingless bastard."

Hurt flashed across his face, and he immediately closed his mouth. His wings pulled tight against his body. Self-conscious perhaps? What did it matter. He was gone anyway, striding purposefully towards the door. He pulled it open, glancing back only once before shutting it behind him. Nesta watched him numbly. She supposed it was unfair to expect him to stay after hitting such a sensitive spot, but she had anyway.

She sank to the floor, for once remorse hitting her right in the gut. _I did this_ , she thought. Guilt and sorrow hung heavy over her like a raincloud. She wished for all the world to take comfort in someone else's company. And for the hundredth time in her life, she found herself alone.


	11. THANKS UPDATE

**OKAY. I just needa say this. HUUGE thank you to Flora Silverthrush for all the lovely comments. I really appreciate it :). I really adore your writing and that you'd say all that nice stuff is just like o-O. Thank you and have a lovely day!**

 **-Arya**


	12. Remorse (Nesta angst) pt 2

_Shit, shit, shit._

Rhys winnowed, heart in his throat. His Mate, she was hurt. _She's in pain she's in pain she's_ — Panic like this hadn't hit him since they'd rescued her from Tamlin's estate. The war still raged on outside, yes, but there had been a lull in the action. Attacks came less often. The quiet held a foreboding, like their enemies were planning something far greater than these few minor scuffles they set up. A kill here and there to keep up appearances, but nothing too great, all the while plotting, scheming. The weeks of relief had softened him, as much as he'd tried to avoid it. The sudden swell of emotion rose up, stifling, and he couldn't shove it down.

"Feyre?" he asked as soon as he landed, worry etching his words. He knew she was here, in their chambers. He could scent her, feel her, and the question was said more as a way of alerting _her_ to his presence than the other way around. Her name bounced off the walls, silent and confused, and his heart ached, thinking it a reflection of her emotions. "I'm here," he said softly, seating himself on the bed.

Feyre didn't answer, staring blankly out the window. The sun was out, clear and bright. Light streamed through the large windows, but somehow, even with the glowing, dappled patterns filtering through the interior of the room, the grey walls were tall and looming, the drab colors overwhelming what should've been a beautiful day. Rhys' lips twisted in a grimace. He wished for gray clouds and rain. At least then the weather would not seem so mocking. He probed tentatively at the other side of the bond. His Mate was slouched and drooping, and he felt a thrill of fear when he got no answer.

Again he tried. No response. "Feyre," he whispered, not daring to move closer. She flinched. Silence reigned supreme for what seemed like forever. Rhys was just about to go, no matter how much he ached for her, but then she spoke, voice feather-light and barely audible, his sensitive ears straining to catch every syllable. "It's so much worse now." The same thing she'd said after he released the vision upon the inner circle.

Rhys waited, sending enouragement through the bond. "So much worse," she repeated, still not looking at him. Her words were blank and emotionless. "Before it was easy to forget. But now...you've reminded me, and I can't anymore."

Rhys had nothing to say to that.

#

"Where is she?" Cassian grumbled.

He paced, in a manner that he'd learned from Rhys, up and down, up and down. Mor watched him, draped across the sofa with Azriel on the armrest. "With Rhys," she said, voice thin and hollow.

"Well, I know that," he snapped. "I meant Nesta. _"_

 _"_ Who knows?" Mor said, just as viciously. "Why don't you just tug on that bond and find out? Go and fuck her while you're at it." Her lip curled. "Hard."

"Mor," Cassian said, and there was a warning in his voice, not to say anything else. His wings had unfurled halfway, and his feet were braced wide apart in an aggressive stance.

"What?" She sat up. "What do you want from me? My cousin's gone missing, looking for his _broken_ Mate." She spat a curse and tensed. "We all know what's happened to Feyre, except now we don't 'cause she's gone off somewhere. Fuck, Cassian, _what do you want?"_

He didn't say anything.

Azriel took her hand.

#

Nesta was in shambles. She hadn't cried since she was a little girl, and it was with great confusion that she reached up, hand trembling, to find her cheeks wet. Her breath stuttered, and a tremor racked her body.

"Nesta," a small voice had her whirling. Elain stood in the doorway, eyes soft and voice softer. "Oh, Nesta. What's happened to you?"

"Go away, Elain," Nesta growled, ashamed of her tears. She scrubbed furiously at her face, but she found that the tears didn't stop when she wanted them to. "Just—go away." Her voice cracked on the last words, and she wrapped her arms around herself, defeated.

And suddenly small hands were prying open her arms, a warm body slipping in close, smelling of fresh flowers. Elain hugged her tight, and mechanically coerced Nesta's body to comply, forcing her to return the embrace and rest her chin on her shoulder. "Nesta," she breathed. "It's okay to cry." And she did, heaving sobs that left her breathless and gasping at the force of her emotions. When Cassian had left, he'd taken something else with him. Hope, she knew. She was reduced to the mess she was. Nobody wanted her.

Elain, dear Elain, always knew her sister better than anyone. Long nights in their cramped bedroom, Feyre gone out to hunt, they'd share secret fears with each other. Feyre wasn't sentimental enough to do that, and she was too busy anyway.

"Gods," Nesta gasped when she was through. Her embrace relaxed, and she held on more out of comfort than need. "Fuck." She shook her head, and a shaky chuckle escaped. "Who knew a few tears could beat the shit out of you as good as a punch to the gut?"

"Well," her sister mumbled, "at least you can take the punch with dignity." Nesta shared the laugh, and then they were both crying, clinging to each other, delighting in the warmth of another person to share the pain.


	13. Drunk (Feysand)

There were different kinds of drunk, Feyre mused. There were the matchmakers, like Mor, who, after a few cups of wine, made it their personal goal to acquire you a shiny new boyfriend. The restrictions on who exactly this person was were loose, to be frank. In Feyre's experience, she did not even have to know them. Hell, they usually weren't sober and could barely stand upright without Mor's surprisingly steady shoulder to lean on. Once, Mor had tried to convince her to take a skeleton to dinner, Rhys pouting all the while.

Amren wasn't much better. When she got drunk, she was terrifying. It was a bit how Feyre imagined she'd be if she got pregnant (Cauldron forbid it). Her expressionless face took a turn for the worse, either blown red in rage, or streaked with ugly tears. A volcano, that was how she was, pressure building, building, from the slightest provocation, and then exploding furiously and suddenly. Amren didn't exactly shoot molten rock out of her head, but the things that flew from her mouth certainly burned.

Azriel was the best out of them all. Feyre had only seen him tipsy once, never full-out drunk. He could hold alcohol better than Cassian, surprising since the General was considerably more free with how much he drank and just how frequently. The single time Az took one too many shots, she hadn't gotten to witness the extent of his stupor. He'd disappeared. Vanished. Five hours later, he was back, come just as quietly as he'd left. During a particularly humorous exchange, Feyre's laughter ceased abruptly, glancing at the shadowsinger who had been engaged in the conversation for quite some time. She couldn't remember him entering the room, and she was left wondering when exactly he'd sneaked in. Cassian suggested that Azriel left because he had something to hide. Perhaps he was one of those people who gushed and preened. None believed it.

While Cassian's tongue was loose enough already when he was sober, it positively lolled out of his mouth when he was drunk. His eyes turned droopy, his smile dopey, while he complimented as many females as he could. It became a sort of game between them, to guess just how many women would slap him before he collapsed. The sight of the war-hardened general, one of the High Lord's closest friends, sprawled across three chairs with red hand-prints crisscrossing his face was strange enough to make heads turn, to emit gasps. The inner circle, for their part, fell apart just as effectively as Cassian, albeit from laughter.

Feyre did not know how she was when she was drunk, as she could not remember it. However, enough eyebrows wagged suggestively that she had a pretty good idea of what happened. Rhys grinned, cat-like, when she asked him. He said "If you don't remember a night like that, Darling, you're not going to remember anything." The images he sent were more than enough to fill her in.

Which brought her to Rhys. Her Mate was absolutely incorrigible after downing an entire bottle of brandy. And Cassian had spiked it, for Cauldron's sake. Rhys, normally quite tolerant of other males, had reverted back to the state he was in just hours after the Mating Bond set in, and then some. He growled and snapped at any male that tried to talk to her, even walk past. His anger was enough that a wide, empty circle had formed around her, no matter how incovenient. The party continued on, nervously, participants tittering in safe huddles. The General was not helping one bit, taking personal pleasure in riling him up. She watched worriedly as the two Illyrians circled.

 _Cauldron, it looks like they're about to spar!_

Rhys was certainly ready, eyes wild, nearly panting with feral rage.

"Oh, Feeeeyre," Cassian called, fluttering his eyelids and clasping his hands together. "Won't you come and convince Rhys that threesomes are wonderful?"

Rhys snarled, tendrils of night fluttering dangerously.

"Mor, can't we stop this?" Feyre whispered from the corner of her mouth. Mor, feet propped up on the table, hand secured firmly on Azriel's side, popping chocolates with the other, shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm good." Her gaze stayed glued to the spectacle in front of her, her arm tugging Azriel closer. He shifted uncomfortably.

A roar had Feyre whipping her head around. Rhys had launched himself at Cassian, where they tore at each other like wolves. Screams broke out amongst the common folk, those who could winnow pulling friends with them. The others pushed and shoved towards the door, deference forgotten. The inner circle did not budge, did not spare them a glance. Things like this were fairly commonplace by now. They weren't in any real danger.

Cassian howled with laughter as blood poured down his face. They clubbed each other savagely, until Rhys came out on top. His wings were flared, foam at his mouth, and the darkness burst from him in waves. Mor nodded her head, mouth stuffed full with chocolate. "Good, good."

Feyre spluttered. "You're just going to watch this?"

"Mm-hmm." Mor smacked her lips.

She turned to Azriel. "And you?"

He looked away guiltily.

"Oh! For Cauldron's sake." She stomped over to the two of them, both breathing heavily, sweat soaked through their dress shirts. Rhys' nostrils flared and he turned his head. His eyes glazed and he roughly shoved Cassian away. "Feyre," he said, voice deeper and more guttural than normal.

"Dammit, you need to—" The kiss was unexpected, sloppy and hungry. His mouth was hot, and his hands were going places that were not entirely appropriate. "Rhys," she hissed, breaking away.

"What?" he hummed, peppering kisses down her neck. One of his hands strayed down to her ass and squeezed.

She shoved his hands away. "What the fuck, Rhys!"

He looked up and smiled lazily. "What? You don't complain in bed."

She opened her mouth and choked. Mor snorted, and Cassian was near bawling on the floor.

"Rhys, we're in public," Feyre tried again. Rhys only pulled her closer, a hard jut in his pants.

"So?"

"So, stop!" She broke away from him, flushed and wanting, but also flustered and embarrassed. As she did, various exclamations of horror and delight arose from their crowd. Her face heated as she realized why. All one had to do was glance down before certain things became obvious. Certain _feelings_ that could be expressed in involuntary bodily reactions.

Mor winced, but a smirk still lined her face. "Never wanted to see that."

"Woa-ho!" Cassian whooped. "Looks like someone's up and at 'em!"

"Well," Az said quietly, "the cock has crowed, hasn't it?"

Amren and Cassian guffawed. Mor let out a surprised laugh and gave him a payful slap. _"Az!"_

Cassian leaned over to whisper not-very-quietly in Amren's ear, "Didn't think he had it in him."

Meanwhile, Feyre's mortification only grew. It seemed Rhys' shame had been piled on top of hers. "Well," he began, stepping closer. "Where were we?"

Feyre fended him off, and he stumbled finally, leaning back heavily against the wall. "If you'd just step right this way—"

"Rhys, you can barely stand," Feyre said heatedly. Screw embarrassed. That was in the trash can now. "How do you suppose we fuck?"

Again, whoops and hollers, mostly from Cassian.

"Well," Rhys said. "It's something like taking a crap outside. There's a hole, and then you sit on the hole, and nothing happens for a while, and then you feel it coming, and when it does it's like an explosion of stars behind your eyes as you release yourself and then the most blissful satisfaction." He paused. "And then you want to sleep a lot."

Silence as they all stared at him, mouths agape.

"What?"

"O-kay," Feyre said. "Now I'm genuinely worried. Cassian, how much did you put in there?"

He held up his hands placatingly. "Not enough to do this. I swear."

"Damn," Mor said. "That was a good metaphor."

Azriel frowned at her. "You didn't have any of the brandy, did you?"

Mor smiled mysteriously.

Feyre's attention was taken again by that wandering hand. "Well, Feyre," Rhys whispered, eyes earnestly searching hers. His voice was serious as he said, "Will you take a crap on me?"

Feyre shook her head, eyes wide. "Fuck. I don't think we're going to be able to have sex for a long, long time."


	14. Drunk Feyre (Feysand NSFW)

**So sorry this took so long. Decided to make this drunk thing a mini series. Inner circle drunk fics. If you have a suggestion, leave a comment or message me. :)**

The night had stared out normal enough, laughter and conversation buoyed by a healthy amount of alcohol. Cassian had, of course, been the instigator of the drinking games and bottle spin, as he always was. He managed to incorporate liquor into every single game, even ones as innocent as hopscotch. The small room they stayed in was not made to host even three people, but somehow nine had made it inside. Mor was currently snuggled up against a very uncomfortable Azriel, Amren chatting with them from the love-seat that everyone had very politely avoided sitting in, though the whole place was crammed with the many bodies. Elain and Lucien had come in, but they had somehow escaped the confines of the tiny room, running off to frolic in the meadows, or some cheesy crap like that. Nesta watched with a critical eye. Everyone was having a jolly good time.

Except Feyre.

Her arms were folded tightly across her chest, her lip curled, and her eye had acquired that awful twitch. She'd been off alcohol for months now, all because of a day she'd rather not talk about. Tipsy flying, a bad idea, not that she'd cared when she did it. The inner circle had been laughing at her from behind the scenes, she remembered heatedly. Should've stopped her before she'd made a fool of herself. The result: half a forest flattened, a storm unleashing havoc on the sea, and, the worst, a fae-shaped impression in the trunk of a tree that she very much would like to cut down. The ridiculous amount of parties that followed her drunkenness—or, it felt ridiculous, though it was the same amount of parties as any other time—had not been helpful. The world seemed bleak indeed.

"Why so broody, darling?" Rhys asked from behind, pulling her into the warmth of his embrace. "Something you'd like? Perhaps a glass of wine to loosen up those muscles?"

Feyre glowered and did not uncross her arms. "I'd take care with what you say," she hissed.

Rhys only laughed, pressing a kiss to her head. "Always do."

"Hey, Feyre!" Cassian called. He had a goblet of wine in either hand, Nesta behind him with a wild grin on her face. "I'll drink an extra one for you!" He downed both one after another, wiped his mouth, and shot her a thumbs up.

Feyre's eye twitched.

Mor sauntered over, Azriel shadowing her. "How goes the liquor-cleanse, my dear?" she asked brightly, clapping a hand on Feyre's shoulder. The other was occupied, she noticed, with Azriel's. She hid a smile, and Azriel shifted uneasily, though he did not let go of her hand.

"Marvelous," she responded dryly. "I love watching you all drink yourselves to death while I stand about and do nothing. Real mood-lifter, you know."

 _You can certainly lift other things of mine, Feyre,_ Rhys purred, and she was suddenly aware of how very warm he was.

She shoved those feelings away in a box, more out of spite than anything. Pushing out of his grip, she whirled to face him. "Why are you _always_ thinking about that?" she said, mortification coloring her words.

He shrugged, a smirk lighting up his eyes.

"Because he's male," Amren drawled.

Mor snorted and cocked a brow at Azriel. He jolted, and she laughed. "Point taken."

"Well, you have fun, dears," Feyre announced. "I'm off to the mountains to live the pure life. You know what that means. No more sweet food. No more alcohol. And absolutely _no more sex_."

Rhys sputtered, and she felt his heart stop for a moment. "W-what?"

Cassian howled in laughter behind them, pointing a finger at his brother. "Your reaction," he wheezed. "It's priceless. Cauldron, Feyre, good one."

Mor had joined him on the floor, Azriel stumbling down with her. Amren and Nesta both bared their teeth like wolves.

Rhys was not finding any of this funny. In fact, it was with a worry-edged voice, bordering on panic that he said in her mind, _Darling, you wouldn't do that to me, would you?_

Feyre twisted her neck to look at him, and smiled slowly in answer. _Depends how good you are._

His eyes lit up again, gleaming with good-natured promise. _Good where? Because if you mean in bed—_

"That is exactly what I _didn't_ mean," she growled, out loud this time, drawing startled looks from the boys at her tone and a roll of the eyes from Nesta.

"It wasn't for you guys. They're doing that mind read-y thing again."

Cassian held his tongue between his teeth. "What did you say this time, Rhys?"

"Probably something offensive," Mor responded.

Rhys gasped in mock horror. "I would never."

"Yes, you would," Azriel said helpfully.

Feyre was getting more frustrated by the second. Silly, she knew, but on four hours of sleep and watching her friends drown themselves in the liquor she wished to dive into, she felt perfectly justified. "Anyways, I'm off, as I said before."

They looked at her.

"What's with her?" Cassian muttered.

It was then that Nesta looked up, and snorted. "Oh, everyone watch out. She's got _that_ look."

"What look?"

"The look that says—"

"Get me a cup of brandy before I fucking murder something," Feyre said quietly, dangerously.

Nesta waved her hand in a way that said she'd just proved her point.

Mor got her a cup of brandy, failing to hide her jovial grin. "Love this," she whispered to Azriel.

Feyre took a long swig, felt it pump through her system. "Someone get me another. I'm going to need a lot to get out of this mood."

Rhys said, "But Feyre, what about no alco—"

"Screw _no alcohol,_ " she growled, stepping close enough to share breath, for him to see just how serious her glare was. "Get me some before I become a prude."

Rhys blanched and scurried away to find her what she wanted.

Mor cocked her head, puzzled. "A prude?" she said slowly.

"A prude," Feyre said shortly, and that was that.

The following hour consisted of what Feyre called "experimentation." The way she saw it, if she didn't try new things in life, she would never find what she liked and didn't. So what better thing to start with than booze? There was whisky and vodka, gin and beer, white wine and red wine, and, her favorite, brandy. Her thoughts grew progressively foggier, just as she'd wanted. What she did not want, and had not anticipated, were the unfortunate side effects.

She was horny as hell, ready to jump anything that moved. It didn't help that she'd threatened to go into lifelong celibacy not too long ago, or that her Mate was starting to look like sex on legs. As painful minutes past, her resolve grew.

#

Rhys was in the middle of a particularly amusing retelling of the encounter with the Suriel when he was jerked backwards with a strength that defied the hand's size. He smelled her before he saw her, pupils dilating in the half-second it took him to identify what exactly it was.

Feyre did not even acknowledge Cassian or Azriel or their knowing looks as she hauled him towards the door by his collar. "Feyre," he croaked, but she didn't answer him. No, rather she slammed him against the nearest wall and kissed him hard. It was different than other times, greedy and selfish and _dammit he knew exactly what she wanted_.

"I know what I want," she breathed in his ear, sultry and dark, "and you're going to give it to me.

And screw him, when she spoke like that, grinding down against the bulge in his pants while her hands just barely brushed against his wings. he was ready to do anything to get her to relieve the ache in his gut. Her fingers skimmed the edge of a wing and he moaned. " _Yes_ , Feyre."

She smirked, showing off teeth that looked more like fangs. She winnowed them into another room of the inn and found it gloriously empty. They hadn't payed for anything more than the one room, but Rhys would take care of that later. Right now he had other things to deal with.

Like the woman in front of him. She looked sinful in nothing, her clothes magicked away, eyes dark and knowing. He found himself nude as well. She came closer to him, prowling. She was not Feyre, his Mate. She was the High Lady of the Night Court, the huntress. And he very much wanted to be her prey.

She circled him, her fingertips trailing and leaving goosebumps. "I'm going to take what I want from you," she said softly. Those same words Amarantha had said to him, but she was far from his mind now. It was somehow different with Feyre, perhaps the intention. Amarantha had wanted to hurt him, took psychotic pleasure in it. But Feyre, she had proven too many times over that she cared about him and all he stood for.

Feyre smiled, softer this time, though the wicked gleam had not left her eyes. "Turn around, Rhys." He did, loosing a shaky breath when he felt Feyre's warmth press against his back. He felt _everything_. Her breath warmed his neck, and her hands—

Rhys arched his back, mouth falling open when she touched his wings. A string of curses fell past his lips, a mirror to the words playing over and over in his head. Feyre pulled and tugged at them until he spread them wide, more reflex than anything. She kissed up his back, tongue slipping out to lick a line up his neck, all the while her fingers just barely touching his wings.

She didn't let him come. Instead she turned him around when he was halfway there, panting and gasping at the slightest brush against his skin, skin that felt flushed and oversensitive. Feyre's face was feline, self-satisfied.

 _I have a right to be,_ she whispered into his mind. _Just look at yourself._

He didn't answer, couldn't answer, and her smirk only grew. "Touch me, Rhys," she said, and her own wings burst forth in a blinding flash of light. They seemed even more magnificent today, the colors deeper, with veins of crimson and purple highlighting the edges of bone and sinew. "Touch me," she repeated, and he stumbled forward at her command.

Feyre locked eyes with him as he knelt in front of her and pulled her down into his lap. The kiss he gave was gentle, but she'd have none of it, deepening it almost immediately and pushing his hands around towards her wings. His cock throbbed painfully at the sound she made. The membrane was rough and pebbled beneath the pads of his fingers, and he found that he liked tracing the latticework of veins. Feyre's wings twitched and moved up into his hands. Rhys found that she was much more vocal when she was drunk. And a lot more demanding. "Hurry up, Rhys," she hissed, breaths labored. He increased the pace, pulling her into another kiss that betrayed his own need. It was when his hips jolted up into hers that she groaned loudly, wings flaring taut, she pressing closer into him.

Her orgasm lasted much longer than normal, at least thirty seconds, and her pants and moans did not stop throughout the entirety of it. It was thirty seconds of agonizing bliss for Rhys. Feyre pushed him to the ground immediately after she'd come down from her high, eyes impossibly darker than before. His cock slipped into her easily, and his eyes fell shut. She took him hard and fast, hands braced on his chest, leaning slightly forward. Rhys' talons shot out, gripping the dusty floorboards for dear life. He came once, but she didn't stop, even when he softened inside her. She rode him until he was hard again, his head thrown to the side.

"Fuck," he spat when she bit his neck and clawed at his wings. The pain was terrible, and he loved it. She pulled another orgasm from him before her pace turned desperate. She stopped completely for the second time, gripping his shoulders tightly and moaning so loud it made his head spin.

"Damn it all, Rhys," she said breathlessly. "I want to fuck you all over again."

#

The morning came, and Feyre woke with a headache that throbbed enough to rival the ache between her thighs. It was hard to explain things to the others, and especially hard to explain it to the innkeeper, who said "It's perfectly fine fer yung'ins to do what yung'ins do." They'd left rather hurriedly after that. Rhys had a lazy, masculine smile on the whole day, taking care to get in as many dirty, little quips as he could. It was strange, how the roles had reversed, at least by Mor's standards. Feyre, for her part, was totally back to normal. She claimed she couldn't remember a bit of last night, only that she had made out with Rhys against a wall.

Rhys was perfectly okay to fill the blanks in.


	15. Drunk Azriel Pt 1 (Moriel)

Azriel regretted that last beer. He was usually very careful of how much alcohol he consumed, but today...well, let's just say, his _guard_ was down. While normally, Mor certainly had fun getting a rise out of him, she'd gone overboard this day. Emissaries from the Winter Court had come, the result of his many months of tedious diplomacy. Little was known of that particular Court, and Rhysand had taken careful steps in acquiring as much information as he could. The envoys had arrived on a special day of theirs, a holiday of some sorts. _Foroya,_ they called it, _opulence._

This last mission, this last tentative meeting, would mark the cutting of the red ribbon. Borders on either side would be open to members of either Court. Peace. Finally. The emissaries were not the same hard-edged political men that had appeared in the beginning of their treating. No, instead it was high-boned women, sporting pale blue garb, covering only what was strictly necessary. They were dancers, a show of Kallias' new-found comfort in the Night Court, slowly revealing the complex mysteries of his people without any ulterior motive. Rhys had certainly reacted properly, graciously taking in the envoys and calling a formal party in their honor. It became less and less so when the women of Winter, smiling wolfishly, revealed the tiny bottles they'd kept hidden in the fabric between their breasts.

It was alcohol in its purest form, meant to be diluted in water. Cassian had scoffed at them all, calling them babies for even thinking of it. Even now he was downing the stuff, an arm wrapped around a slim, black-haired dancer. He hid his grimaces behind a charming smile. The rest of Kallias' women were on full display, contorting their bodies in ways that had many of the males mesmerized. They stepped quick and graceful, sure-footed, twirling blue silk capes in time to their rhythm. Azriel watched them, admired the delicate tassles of their tight-fitting shorts, and deliberately ignored the bright woman who's blonde hair stood out as a beacon among Winter's classic ebon locks.

It was harder to keep check on his control with alcohol muddling his system, so he held to his stubborness instead. Mor had immediately been drawn to the emissaries, fascinated by their lilting accents and casual grace. With her usual charm, she'd opened up conversation with the lot of them, and they'd quickly taken a liking to her. They'd nicknamed her _En Seada._ It meant "hummingbird" in their language. Azriel knew only because his shadows had told him. It was always strange to him how the Winter Court had diverged so fully from the rest, going so far as to develop their own language and culture.

Mor fit right in. Somehow. Her confidence and sarcastic wit made her stand out amongst the taciturn dancers, as much as her physical appearance. She was warm and bright in contrast to their icy beauty, dark and cold. Yet, despite the differences, she carved a home for herself amongst them. She'd accepted the invitation to dance as soon as she was asked, taking care to teach her comrades the Night Court's style. Azriel had watched her the entire time, how she'd picked up the Winter Court techniques so quickly.

Every so often her eyes would skim across his form, seemingly innocent, but Azriel knew better. She was playing with him, the sinful smirk on her lips definitely meant for him. He knew better than to fall for her taunts, which was why his eyes were strictly glued to the far left, the opposite corner of the stage.

"Hey, Azriel!" Cassian bellowed, immediately drawing his attention. He looked questioningly at the General sitting at one of the far tables,grinning and gesturing enthusiastically in what Azriel interpreted as a "come here" motion.

He did so, reluctantly when he noticed the dark-haired dancer had not left his brother's side. "What is it, Cassian?" he asked resignedly, barely concealing his sigh.

The dancer's lips just barely twitched up, eyes gleaming with amusement as her eyes flicked between the two of them. _She knows,_ the shadows sighed. About his relationship with Cass, Azriel assumed.

Cassian was oblivious. "Azriel, this is Alina." His arm did not budge from its position around her waste. "She wanted to know why you were looking so intently at one side of the stage, and then completely ignored the other."

Azriel hid his frown. _That's why he's so happy._ Of course, why wouldn't Cassian take pleasure in his discomfort? Mor had been a bad influence on him.

"Yes," Alina murmured in a soft, pleasant voice. "Though I did not phrase it quite like that." Her knowing smile had not left. "Have you set your eyes on one of my sisters?"

Cassian guffawed. "Not exactly," he started. "It's the one he _hasn't_ set his eyes on—"

A tendril of black struck lightning fast, slapping against Cassian's mouth. It shut him up as effectively as a gag, though it could not muffle his laughter.

"That's enough, Cassian," Azriel said too-calmly, and the shadow retreated.

Alina was scrutinizing the dark wisps that flitted around his form, expression akin to awe. She gently pried herself from Cassian's grip and reached a hand out towards one. The shadow scuttled away, wary of a stranger. Azriel calmed it with half a thought, urging it back towards the pale fingers. The shadow moved slowly, almost warily, towards only the second female hand that had taken an interest in it. Alina watched the smoky tendril weave through her extended fingers, eyes gleaming emerald green. As the shadow dissipated like a handful of sand, she looked up, about to say something—

"Shadowsinger," a voice whispered behind him.

Azriel turned to see the full entourage of Kallias' Court, clustered around him with reverent disbelief on their faces. Mor stood at their head. "Yes, he is," she announced proudly. "Wonderful, isn't it?"

"Yes." It was the one who'd spoken the first time, with shining, dark brown tresses and a thin nose. She watched him with a predatory sort of intent. It made his stomach crawl as the rest of the group slowly mimicked the expression. He glanced over his shoulder quickly, and was not surprised to find that Cassian had gone, leaving Alina behind to stand with her kin.

Mor did not fail to notice this brief show of his anxiety, and smiled, the vixen. She sauntered forward and coiled around him as a cat would. "You seem nervous," she said into his ear, loud enough that the rest of her group could hear.

He swallowed, but told his face to remain impassive, even as Mor pressed up against his back, wrapped her arms around him. Stiff posture. Body coiled in preparation to flee.

One of the dancers, full-bosomed and tall, let out a tinkling laugh. "He's cute, _En Seada._ It was a good choice, though he still needs to be broken in. With males like him, all one must do is remove one's undergarments."

Mor grinned wickedly, and directed her answer at him. "I did already."

Azriel clenched his jaw.

The dancers giggled. "There!" the tall, breasted one said. "You see? Easy, no?"

"Very," Mor whispered, this time for his ears only.

"Take him home," Alina muttered. "It's the only way to show them."

Though his pulse raced, from irritation and desire both, Azriel felt stubbornness rise like the tide. He broke out of Mor's embrace, pursing his lips at her crestfallen pout. "Afraid I don't feel like it tonight," he said smoothly. Rare was the moment when Azriel did teasing of his own, but when he did, he made sure to do a thorough job. Shoving down his demons, perhaps aided by the five beers, he pulled Mor flush against him. It was without hesitation that he kissed her, softly but firmly, tongue marking exactly what he could do in other places. She moaned softly, just as he pulled away, satisfied by the flush on her cheeks and the heaving of her chest.

The Winter dancers held hands to their mouths in shocked delight, elbowing each other. Alina said something in her native tongue, to which her friends laughed and nodded excitedly. Mor colored further from their words, and Azriel wondered just how much she'd learned of their language over the months of playing diplomat. He did not stay to ask, keeping true to the dramatic reputation he had just left with the dancers. Instead, he let one of those rare smiles light up his face, wild and untamed, a glimpse of who he would have been given different circumstance, if perhaps he'd grown up with a mother to sing him to sleep, a father to encourage his passions. And then he was hurtling towards the window, out, out, into the deep, black night.

#


	16. Drunk Azriel pt 2 (Moriel)

"He's a good one, Morrigan," Alina said, breaking the silence after Azriel had left. Mor blinked out of the daze her shadowsinger had left her in with his kiss and turned to face the dancer.

"I know that," she said exasperatedly, a playful smile on her lips.

"I don't think you do," Amyra said. "My sister means that he's _good._ "

A collective _ohhh_ of understanding ran through the horde of Winter Court emissaries. Then the giggling. Mor's gaze flicked between the feline faces, and a feeling of dread settled in her stomach. "What?" she asked nervously.

"Well," Alina said. "Our language is very different than yours, yes?"

Mor nodded.

"Then you understand that the translation isn't always accurate. When we say what means "good" in your tongue, in ours, it means..." She gestured helplessly with her hand, a sheepish smile on her face.

"Sexual prowess," Amyra suggested helpfully.

More giggling as Mor's cheeks heated. "What? But you can't—that is..." She broke off, took a breath. "You can't tell something like that about a person just by looking."

"Oh, but you can." Amyra grinned wolfishly. "It's in the walk mostly. One unskilled, a...virgin? They will walk with their head bowed, perhaps slumped in the shoulders, if in the presence of the opposite gender. A skilled person, though, well... Certainly, they are different. They are sure to speak with confidence, no matter whom, and perhaps with a bit of cockiness."

"Yes, and they'll never blush," Alina added. The dancers tittered. "Your shadowsinger seems as far from blushing as I do of sprouting a tail."

"He's different than the ones I've been with," Amyra muttered. "Usually they're much more vocal about their affection. Much more into the whole _impressing_ thing."

Mor, trying very hard to keep her composure in the conversation until now, said with as much of it as she could muster, "The what now?"

"You know. The _impressing._ When your male seeks approval. He'll do idiotic things to gain your favor, perhaps jump on tables, quarrel with his male friends." She made a face. "Usually they resort to insulting the female they seek, whatever good that will do."

"Azriel is not like that at all," Mor defended. "Very gentle."

"Hmm," Amyra murmured. "Just wait until you get him in bed."

"Amyra!" Mor hissed, glancing around for any listening ears. There were none, too focused was everyone else on their drinks and conversations.

She ignored Mor and turned to her companions.

" _How will we do it?_ " one of the dancers spoke in the language of Winter.

Amyra smiled. " _The same way we always do. With fire-shots._ "

#

"Ow!" Mor groaned at the bone-toothed comb that ran through the snarls of her wet hair.

"Don't whine," Amyra scolded. "It is very unattractive, and that's the opposite of what we want."

"You could be a little more gentle," Mor grumbled. She yelped as the comb jerked down just a bit harder than necessary.

"What did I say?" Amyra said.

Mor scowled.

"It's for your own good, _En Seada._ You must have hair that shines as gold to lure in your dragon."

"He's not a dragon. More like a puppy."

Alina, from inside the closed, laughed. "Again, wait until you get him in bed."

"Oh, would you stop with that already? Nothing is going to happen."

"Of course," Amyra said placatingly. "Alina, apologize at once."

Alina popped her out and nodded eagerly. "Very sorry."

"Ah!" Amyra exclaimed. "It's done." She held up a mirror, to which Mor nodded appreciatively. Her hair was already drying in light waves down her back, and even without makeup, she had to say she looked damn good.

"I look damn good," Mor declared.

"Ahm, yes, whatever you wish," Alina said distractedly. She'd emerged from the closet holding a sunset orange gown. "Put this on."

Mor did.

It was heavier than she was used to, fabric soft and . Again, she glanced in the mirror and—yeah, she was ready.

#

Azriel returned to the party the following day after a good glass of wine. It was not intended by either High Lord for it to go on this long, but it didn't much matter with how everyone was enjoying themselves. Azriel wore a deep black suit and pants to go with. He'd never been one for fancy attire, but he found that a few tailored to his liking. The garish reds and blues of other outfits certainly were an attention grabber, but it was with a wince that the viewer quickly turned away. With Azriel's minimalist style, there was plenty to take in and the eye was sure to roam over the entirety of the suit.

He had entered the vast room with an unusual sort of feeling in his chest. It was exhilaration, perhaps. A good kind of anticipation. He was looking forward to seeing Mor for once, no dread at whether or not he would taint her beauty with his grim demeanor. No, he had pushed that aside for now, and it surely felt good. He thought back to when he'd kissed her, and a pleased smirk settled across his lips when he recalled her moan. He'd be sure to ring another out of her before the night was through. The thought flitted through his mind, clear and unblemished, and it should've been strange to let it slide without any self-correction. It wasn't, though.

When he saw her, clustered in between her Winter Court entourage, he let out a breath. She of course wore a dress that swept the floor, rosy and peach-colored. Her scent traveled to him, even from across the room. His blood sang when he smelled her pure intent. He prowled closer, weaving between the crowds until he was just behind her. He knew she could sense his presence, just as acutely as he could hers. He pressed up against her back.

"What are you wearing?" he breathed into her ear.

Slowly, the Winter Court women dispersed, amused smiles on their lips, and then they were alone in a sea of strangers.

"A gown," she stated obviously.

"Yes, I can see that," he huffed a laugh against her neck.

"It's for you."

Azriel was not sure what came over him then. A new wave of confidence shot through him, leaving his entire body tingling and energized, and he wished it could be like this all the time. He nipped her ear. "I can see that, as well."

She spun in his arms and then they were kissing. Soft and wanting. Azriel ran his hands through the silky tresses of her hair, ground against her just slightly and—

Mor moaned, low and long, for his ears only. One hand she entwined with his. The other she let trail low down between them. Her fingers brushed against his trousers, and he loosed a breath from his nose, tugging her closer. Azriel walked her backwards through the rows of people, never breaking the kiss, relying on his shadows to tell him where to go. When one whispered _window_ in his ear, Azriel swept Mor into his arms and spread his wings.

It was chilly outside; the wind was an unwelcome wake-up call from their tangled hands and kisses. They broke apart with sharp intakes of breath at the cold, but then Azriel was pressing his lips against hers again, demanding more from her. The thud of his wings told her they were in the air, though she was a bit too preoccupied to care. His tongue slipped into her mouth, lazy and sure, as his hand moved up brazenly from its tight grip on her thigh.

Her weight had to shift fully into one of Azriel's arms in order to grant him access to the other, but he didn't seem to notice her weight. The wandering hand did not waste any time in slipping past her underpants and finding the spot that had her gasping against his lips. He was quick and perfect, for she had no patience either, and her entire body tightened at the pleasure.

"Azriel," she sighed as two fingers slipped into her, and his head moved to her neck. She came faster than she ever could've on her own, and pulled Azriel into a searing kiss just as she tightened around him. He still moved the fingers inside of her, more insistently, though his own need was making itself known in the press against her hip. His wings thrummed steadily, and Mor lifted a hand to brush against one.

He shuddered, and she knew he did not wish her to mix his pleasure with hers, but he was unable to stop her in this position. She caressed the membrane every time it came into reach, in time to the movement of his fingers. Her release came slower this time, her touch bringing enough pauses in his movements that she could breathe. His cock twitched against her side as finally he let out a moan.

The wind whipped against them, harder now. It stung her face, but she didn't care, not with her climax hovering just out of reach. "Finish me, Azriel," she whispered, and he groaned, burying his face in her neck. His wings beat faster, matching the tempo he caressed her. Mor came hard, tugging his wings as she did so. Azriel's breath came in little plumes of smoke in the cold, and his eyes were lidded with want.

"Mor," he rasped, voice deep and rough. "I—"

"Shh," she hushed him. A hand fished in his trousers, a rakish grin stretching across her features. Azriel cursed at the suddenness of the movement, wings faltering for just a moment. She stroked him slowly, leaned up to kiss him. He broke with a cry, and his motions stopped altogether. He could not think of anything but the woman in his arms, surely not about a thing so unimportant as keeping them aloft.

It was when he felt his stomach in his throat that he realized they were free-falling, and he managed to pull his wings out in the proper motion. They glided horizontally along the grasses of a great swathe of meadow. They were lucky to have made it here, else they'd have been dead. Azriel tucked his wings in a foot above the ground, dropping lightly with the precious cargo in his arms. He was shaky and unsteady from the force of his release, but he managed to stand upright.

She smiled at him, and they kissed again beneath the stars.

"Why'd it take so long for me to do that?" Azriel murmured after a pause.

Mor shrugged, then asked suddenly, "Where were you before you came to the party?"

"The House of Wind," he said, perplexed.

"What were you doing?"

"Nothing, really. Read a book. Drank a glass of...wine..." He trailed off as something dawned on him. "That was fire-shots in my wine, wasn't it?"

Mor smiled mysteriously.


	17. Skies (Feysand)

Rhys was dreaming again.

For the past few days, he'd had nothing but trouble when it came to falling asleep. Normally, he was exhausted by nightfall, and the darkness of a warm bed and sheets enveloped him easily. But today, he didn't have the comfort of his Mate to lull him to sleep. Two weeks he'd been gone, off to the wilds with Cassian and Azriel in search of a runaway recruit. Rhys had fallen into a routine. Wake up with the sun, fly until his wings ached and squint at the ground against the snow's glare, land with the sun's fall, and fall into their makeshift camp.

Tonight, he had cursed that runaway recruit. Stupid Illyrians, with their stupid bull-heads and stupid pride. He was too tired to care that he was insulting himself.

It was a little while before Rhys actually managed to fall asleep, and even then his head would not give him reprieve. Feyre plagued his thoughts. He missed her. Terribly. And it seemed another part of his body did as well.

 _She was dressed in nothing, and her wings were out. He wanted to touch her. Red-painted lips turned up at his open look of hunger. She did not give him warning before she spread her wings taut and lifted off the ground in one mighty stroke. Feyre angled towards the sky, naked but for the glory of her own skin. Rhys followed her eagerly, barely registering the appearance of his own wings._

 _They met high above the canopy of trees, with clouds close enough to touch. The air blew strong in the open air, but Feyre showed no sign of discomfort. He wasn't cold either. A heat spread through him as she drew closer, close enough that their wings brushed. A shudder racked his body at the touch, and he finally reached out and tugged her close._

 _"Feyre..." he whispered._

 _"Mm?" she asked, nuzzling against his neck._

 _"I love you."_

 _"I know." Feyre kissed him, slow and seductive, and heat pounded through him. She drew a finger along his wing, and he groaned, his rhythm broken. Wind rushed past his ears, and he realized he was falling. It was a few seconds of free-fall before he righted himself and drew to her level again._

 _Shaking his head, he resumed his place against her chest and tutted. "What if I'd fallen? How do you think to explain to the world if I was found splattered against the ground?"_

 _Feyre smiled against his chest. "I'd tell them it wasn't my idea to go flying, and they'd have to listen because I'm their High Lady."_

 _"What if they didn't believe you? How could you have gotten the High Lord of Night to chase you_ naked _into the sky?"_

 _"I enticed him with sex."_

 _Rhys laughed at that, leaned in to kiss her—_

"Rhys."

Rhys jolted awake, sweating, at the voice. He was tense, wings half-flared, before he realized it was Cassian.

"Rhys," Cassian repeated. "There's—" He paused, sniffed the air, then recoiled. "Fuck, Rhys! What were you doing before I got in here?"

"Not what you think," Rhys said, but Cassian paid no mind.

"Cauldron, you haven't done that since...let me think. Since that elimination challenge just before the Rite." A brow lifted. "Four and a half centuries ago." Cassian had his hands on his hips now, and he shook his head. "Well, no matter anyway. Feyre'll take care of that itch."

Rhys sat up. "She's here?"

"Somehow."

Rhys stood quickly, not bothering to put on pants (and not caring even as Cassian pretended to gag), and brushed past his brother.

"You're welcome!" Cass called from behind.

Rhysand was walking past the fire's dregs and the rough patch of ground Azriel had cleared for sleep, when the shadowsinger jerked his head up and breathed deep. "Rhys?" he asked curiously, voice rough with sleep and dark eyes questioning. "It's been four and a half centuries since—"

"Four and a half centuries since I did _that._ I know," Rhys interrupted, not slowing his pace.

He found Feyre at the edge of the camp, seated back against a rock. She smiled warmly when she saw him. _Rhys,_ she sent along the bond.

 _Feyre, darling._

Rhys knelt in front of her and leaned in for a kiss. She returned it without hesitation, shifting into a better position to reach him.

"Miss me?" he asked when they broke apart.

"You missed me more," she grinned then. "Judging by your dreams anyway."

Rhys huffed a morose laugh. "You have no idea, darling." He pressed his still-prominent erection against her.

She shut her eyes, the traces of a smug smile still playing across her lips. A lull fell over them, one in which Rhys' pulse slowed to a steady _thrum thrum thrum,_ and Feyre's thought's turned over the other sides of the dream he'd shouted across the bond. Her attention snagged on particular bit, and he sent a questioning murmur.

Feyre bit her lip and turned to look at him. Her wings erupted in a burst of bright light as she asked bluntle, "Show me?"

Rhys' breath caught, and he nodded numbly. His wings spread slowly, and a matching set of night-dark wings stretched out behind his mate. A moment of uncertain silence.

 _What now?_

Feyre's blurted question shooed the tense quiet away.

Rhys smiled. "Now flap them." He demonstrated.

Feyre huffed in annoyance and crossed her arms. "It's not that simple."

"But it is."

She squinted at him. "You're sure?"

Rhys flew in lazy circles above her head. "Been doing this for centuries, remember?"

 _Prick._

But she spread her wings anyway and gave a few experimental beats. She seemed surprised at the amount of force they generated, and Rhys watched as she swept her wings downwards in a powerful arc. Her feet lifted from the ground before touching down again. "Huh," she said. "That easy." It was not two seconds later that Feyre joined him in the sky, new muscles and tendons stretching pleasantly.

She didn't stop just next to him, though. She continued until she was embracing him, arms wrapped tight around his body. "I missed you," she admitted.

Rhys closed his eyes and murmured gently, "I did, too."

They opened their eyes at the same time and met gazes. A smile broke out over Feyre's face. "I'm flying, you know."

Rhys returned the smile. "I know."


	18. A Promise (A Maeve fic)

**Okay, so this was a really interesting idea that gave me like a million ideas. I decided to put as many as I could in here, so enjoy everyone! (A Maeve fic)**

* * *

The throne room was dark. Shadowed, black walls curved sharply away from the ebon-stained tiles of the floor, tilting up and up and up to meet in a dome a hundred feet above. This should've opened up the room, dispelling any claustrophobic thoughts, but instead it made it seem as if there was no space at all, as if the walls were closing in and the floor collapsing. The lack of proper furniture and ornamentation only accentuated the crushing emptiness of the great hall, and any unfortunate visitor would feel like a deer in an open field. The current subject of this strange torture was sweating and wringing his hands nervously, his words stuttering and uneven.

Queen Maeve sat stiff-backed in her throne. She did not remember any other way to sit. Her bones were made of iron, same as her heart, and her backbone did not bend. The man continued his mumbling, and Maeve stared at him unblinkingly. His lips moved, but she could not hear.

 _Blood-red hands, plunging deep into a human chest._

"Me wife," the farmer said. "She's caught the flu and I've not a coin-"

 _A shrill wine, slowly, slowly building into a scream. Then many._

"Soon the kids'll get it, too-"

 _"How many?" she said, not really wanting to know the answer even as she asked._

 _He swallowed, dark hair shifting as his throat bobbed. "Four-thousand."_

"So, you see, m'lady-Queen, that is-"

 _Her hands were wrapped around his neck, nails painted crimson looking like bloody claws as they gripped tighter._

"-to ask for help-"

 _Tighter, tighter. The fingers went white as they squeezed the life from her King. A wraith-like face laughed, taunting, skin pale and colorless but for her hair. The hair that seemed to grow brighter with every pool of blood spilled._

"O' course, you don't have t'-"

 _As those fingers went taut, a_ crack _chased all other sound away, buried it in cotton. The silence made the noise that much louder._

 _"Rhysand!"_

"My son, Queen. He-"

"That's quite enough." Maeve's voice was calm, amenable even. It was a horrible contrast to the shrieking hum beneath her skin. She made a gesture to her guards, a single sweep of her left hand that had three full-blooded Fae males setting down spears in favor of sword or axe.

As they neared, the farmer seemed to come back to himself, glancing back at the approaching Fae. "What's this?" he asked.

One of the males roughly pulled his hands behind his back. That was when the old farmer began thrashing.

"What is this?" he asked again, panic edging his voice. "Put me down!"

Maeve watched without speaking.

The second guard pushed the man to his knees, pressing against his shoulders to keep him from squirming away.

And the third, he snapped gloves onto his hands, to lessen the mess that came afterwards. He tested the edge of his blade on his thumb, found it satisfactory. The farmer screamed, twisting and turning, but the arms that held him were like iron bands. The third Fae hefted the sword and leaned back to give himself room.

"I'm innocent!" the farmer shouted. "I'm innocent!"

Maeve leaned forward then, a cruel light behind her eyes. "No one is," she crooned.

"I'm inn-"

A rush of air, a geyser of blood, and the third male had eyes like granite as he wiped the farmer's life from his blade and walked back to his place. The two Fae who'd been holding down the man did not speak as they took up their posts by the door, leaving a crumpled, headless body behind.

#

Mild irritation could be seen in the feathering of Maeve's jaw. If she could have, she'd be drumming her fingers along the deep blue manchette of her armrest. One of the typical meetings again, complete with tittering court ninnies and pompous fools. Hundreds of kingdoms she'd conquered, and not one managed a decent court without its share of idiots. She'd gotten used to it, and usually the ordered murder of the courtier of her pick was enough to shut them up. But her guards were not currently present, out on a scouting mission in search of Aelin Galathynius.

A thrill ran through her blood at just the thought of the Queen's name. She'd escaped the iron prison, somehow. One day, Maeve had pried opened the door and found it empty, naught a trace left but for a swirling series of marks, sketched out in blood. There had been no sign of the Queen since, but rumors spread quick, and Maeve heard the whispers of an army rising in the North.

A donkey's laugh burst from one of the courtiers, bursting her bubble of calm. He was surprisingly ugly for a Fae, with a sloping brow and protruding nose, and his guffaw did nothing to help his predicament. Maeve's eyes tightened, and she put just a bit more effort into ignoring them.

As her violet gaze drifted around the room, her thoughts burrowed deep into lost history. To a very different kind of promise.

 _"You will not die. Not now or ever. Not until the world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars."_

Those were the words that the gods had cursed at her, centuries ago, after the death of...everything.

"Your Majesty?"

Maeve flicked her eyes to the one who'd spoken her title.

Strangely, he did not balk. She'd have to break him in soon. "Your Majesty," he said, green eyes bright and black hair waving, "Aelin Galathynius has been sighted."

Maeve smiled.

#

No one knew Maeve's secret, the one of the Queen Who Was Promised. Promised not just to Elena and her gods, but also to her. She did not fight for Erawan, not for pleasure, not for power or some darker purpose. No, she sought freedom. One that none could give her but Aelin Galathynius.

It was with cold anticipation squirming in her gut that Maeve watched, from the safety of a long-boat, her armada crawl forward to meet the approaching one. It was anxious suspense that gnawed at her stomach as she saw just how many men had been gathered under the same banner to kill. And it that was definitely fear that thrilled through her when she realized it was _her_ they wanted to kill.

Another emotion bubbled to the surface, one that had been pushed down for a thousand years to keep her sane. It was excitement, joy, that turned into a burning relief. So long, and finally her dream approached. Her salvation came in the form of pikes and spears and longbows, warships slicing through the water. It came in the form of a golden-haired queen with eyes a blazing blue that would've been better replaced by the line of molten gold rimming the irises.

Terror coursed through her like never before. Of course, it did not show on her face, wouldn't even if she'd wished it to. Maeve let a cruel smile split her face in half, throwing a hand in front of her. Her ship lurched forward, careening towards the opposite bank. Rows of archers stood along each and every of the ships' railings, the ones at the head of the armada like tiny dots in the back of her vision.

"Fire," she whispered, and it was black flames that licked at her fingers as the first volley of arrows clotted the grey sky. Shields emblazoned with a rising sun rose up to defend from the wicked-edged points, but still, faint shrieks could be heard from the lines of enemy men.

A trickle of shadow she sent, a calling, a beckoning. Immediately she was answered. A balmy wind slammed into their ranks, cutting and eddying through the sea breeze. Maeve looked up, and she met eyes of blue and gold, even from over a quarter mile away. Her raging emotions halted when she saw the prince of snow next to her. He stood taller and stronger than he ever had at her side, and through the severed bond, she could feel where his endless sorrow had been replaced by a strange king of fullness.

The hollow cave that had once housed her human heart was suddenly prominent. Once, she had been them. Happy and complete, with a wisdom that could only be gained through the acceptance of another into your life. Hatred raked its oily claws down her insides. Together, the Queen and her mate, a reminder of what had been lost, why she still wanted to kill them.

"I won't let you."

Maeve growled and whirled around, the shadows leaking from her in waves. Her eyes widened when she saw who the voice belonged to. A woman, with long, golden-brown hair flowing down her back and eyes like pale-blue ice. Her form was bright and shimmering, and the power that spilled from her was enough to rival that of Aelin.

"Long time no see, Mora," Maeve snarled. "How's the afterlife suiting you?"

Mora's eyes tightened. "I won't let you kill her," she said.

"I know. That's why you'll have to go first."

Quick as lightning, a needle-sharp thread of shadow shot out. Mora didn't move as the shadow darted for her chest, merely twitched her lip. The shadow was swallowed by a cloud of ice.

Maeve bared her teeth. "Why are you here?"

Mora met her gaze evenly. "The gods have come to collect their Promise. I won't let you kill her."

 _No, and I wouldn't even if you hadn't threatened me._

"Of course," Maeve said coolly. "But why are _you_ here?"

"Because I asked her to be."

The breath caught in her throat as she turned slowly to meet the hazel-brown eyes that she had not seen since her Mate's death. "You," she said, because she had no idea if she should speak in a familiar or formal manner, and the awe did not leak into her voice, even though it was there, thick and stifling.

Vaguely, she could hear the battle cries of her men, but she knew she was safe here, in the thick of her armada, for at least a few more minutes.

"Me," Mab said, and a sad smile lined her eyes.

 _Salty tears spilled down her face, running through the blood that splattered her cheeks. She caressed the leathery membrane of the wing, brought it close to her chest. He was gone._

"Leave," Maeve said bluntly, any good feeling lost as she realized a war raged around her. There was no time for distractions.

Mab flinched and took a step after Maeve's retreating form. "I came to tell you something."

Maeve paused.

"I came to say something He would've wanted you to remember."

"Elain," Mora ground out, and Maeve closed her eyes at that name.

 _Elain..._

Mab ignored it, continuing, "He said he'd always love you. He would _still_ love you, you know. Even with...with how you've turned out. And I-"

" _Elain."_

"-I still love you. Nesta still loves you, even though she won't admit it-"

Maeve turned just in time to see Mora strike Mab with an open palm. "Elain," she said, and cold fire danced in her eyes. "I told you to stop. I _told you._ " Her eyes turned to Maeve, seething with hatred. "I _do not_ love you, Maeve. I loved Feyre, and she's been gone a long, long time."

Gone, ever since her Mate's death. When she'd felt that other line of the bond die, go taut and then snap, she'd erupted.

 _"He's not breathing," Mor whispered. "Shit. Azriel." Her quiet sobs were muffled by the shadowsinger's shirt, and he too let the tears fall._

They'd all been in a room together, and then he'd barged in, violet eyes wild.

 _"She's here," he breathed. "She's here." And when they all glanced at the doorway he'd come through, a shudder of fear passed through each of them. A woman with a plain face and blood-red hair, smirking._

 _"Hello, Rhysand," she purred._

The attack came too quick to follow, and they were all frozen with shock anyway. When manicured nails had torn through his flesh, she had lunged. It was with half a thought that she killed Amerantha and rushed to her Mate's side, the tears already stinging the back of her vision.

 _"Fuck," Cassian swore, voice cracking. "Can't someone do something?"_

 _Slowly, they shook their heads._

Gone, gone, gone.

 _A scream was ripped from her throat, and the damper on her glamour fell. Wings extended, talons cut through flesh, and solid black filmed her eyes. She'd kill them. Kill them all. She'd burn the world._

 _And then she had._

Cassian. Mor. Azriel. Amren. All of them gone. Velaris, too. And so the gods had brought her before them, and they'd determined her fate. A curse, to live forever, until her Promise was born.

Hearing her name again brought immeasurable pain. She had learned to hide it behind a mask of porcelain skin and violet eyes, a wrath greater than that of her lover's killer. And with each word against her, the steel of that mask thickened. "Leave," the Queen of the Fae said, ice coating her words. "Before I lose my temper."

In truth, she already had.

"Feyre," Mab breathed. "You are good. You are kind. I see beneath your mask."

The crackling of magic as the armada at last came upon the shore, and armored bodies heaved themselves into the shallow water. Maeve thought it cruel that fate decided to gift her sister with those same words as she had once told her Mate. It felt like a slap to the face. So it was with venom that she said,"We all start out _good."_ A cruel smirk. _"_ But it doesn't last long."

The ship exploded into black mist.

#

Maeve let the madness show on her face as she crept up behind the Queen of Terrasen. There was none of the fear Maeve felt on her face, none mirrored in Aelin's face.

"I've come to kill you," Maeve announced, and the swirls of shadows thickened around her.

"Funny," Aelin murmured. "I was about to say the same thing."

And then she struck. Maeve dodged, quick as thunder, and Aelin whipped back into a battle stance. They fought long and hard, viciously trading blows. Their magic whipped out in time to the strikes of steel, up and over. Rowan did not make any move to help, she noticed, though his fists were clenched tight and his legs were tense, as if he was ready to jump in at his Queen's first command. He glared at her with all the menace of four-hundred years of servitude.

Distracted for a moment, Maeve did not see the knife coming until the last second, and for the first time in a millennium, Maeve's blood spilled. It flowed free and unabashed into the hard earth, hissing and popping like hot oil. The pain was nothing, a child's hurt, but it still left her gasping. She hadn't felt the ill of a wound in so long, that she found herself fascinated by the glossy beads dripping from the tear in her flesh, so like that deep scarlet hair.

Aelin had paused momentarily, watching curiously. She was still tense, on edge, but something had shifted in her. The hostility had lessened more to...wariness.

"Fireheart," Rowan muttered, voice dripping with warning. "No."

"But what if-" Aelin began, but then Maeve shook her head and was up again. The battle began anew, and she felt her strength flagging. Her well of magic was bone-dry, while Aelin continued to spew flames from her outstretched hand. She knew what was coming before it did. There was only a moment to quell that instinctual fear and replace it with the excitement, the possibility of-

The sword that plunged through her chest was burning-hot, and it rekindled something in that empty cavity where her heart should've been.

 _"I love you, Feyre."_

Aelin jerked the blade free, leaving Maeve gasping on her knees.

 _"I'll love you, forever and always."_

She fell to the ground as her strength failed to her, chest still heaving. Two words burst from her lips in an unintelligible gasp. Blood leaked through her fingers. Despite her lover's protests, Aelin moved forward to crouch beside Maeve. Her eyes were cold, and no pity shown in them, but-

Aelin leaned in, the smell of crackling embers punching through the sweat and tears. "Say it again," Aelin commanded.

Maeve breathed, "I'm sorry."

The Queen of Terrasen studied her for a long moment, gaze assessing, then gave a sharp nod. That was all, nothing more before standing up and turning away to face her own fate. There was nothing more to do, she supposed wryly, and a bit of her old spirit returned, the one that lay slumbering beneath the mask. At least she'd die with dignity, her name whispered for years after the crows had pecked her bones clean.

She missed her Mate. She could admit it after so long. Cassian would've laughed himself hoarse if he knew she had gone celibate for so long. But the passion she'd once felt had died with a pair of violet eyes that her shapeshifting magic could never replicate.

As the blood gushed from her torso, the fear subsided, and finally, _finally_ the overwhelming relief took over.

Maeve, Feyre Cursebreaker and High Lady of the Night Court, lay back, closed her eyes to the darkness, and felt the promise that had been prolonged for a thousand years.

 _Ah, peace..._


	19. The Cure (ToGACOTAR Cross) Pt 1

Evangeline gripped Aelin's hand tightly as they walked towards the portal. It was huge, swirling and frothing with unchecked power, and a ripple of fear pushed through her. Aelin, with that remarkable sense of hers, seemed to notice and squeezed Evangeline's fingers.

"Don't worry," the Queen said in her soothing timbre. "I'm right here."

The knot of fear eased.

#

Aelin was pissed as hell.

Three days. Three _fucking_ days since the war with Erawan and Maeve and the gods' drama and _blablabla._ They all needed to find hobbies that were less destructive than world domination. Feelings aside, the battle had gone _much_ smoother than anyone had predicted. Turned out, Aelin had a hell of a lot more magic than everyone had originally thought. Enough to burn the world to a crisp. It had bubbled to the surface in a fit of anger (no surprise there, really), and she'd wiped out damn near half the continent. It was a good thing, Gavriel had said, they'd been standing on the other half.

Too bad, though, that Aelin's power decided to make a cameo at the _end_ of the battle, after Maeve's armada had wiped out half of the Whitethorns' and blood slicked the once-green grass of the killing field. Too bad that it was after Evangeline had been stuck through by an arrow. It shouldn't have been a problem really; the blunt stone head wasn't sharp enough to get anywhere that would do real damage. But something strange had happened when they'd cut the shaft and pulled the head. The wound had not healed, not even when tended to by Rowan and Aelin both.

No one had known what to do when ebon decay began to creep up Evangeline's arm, replacing smooth, healthy flesh with rotting black. One sweat-soaked sleep later, and the rot had spread from the wound's mouth at the shoulder, all the way down to the bicep. Finally, after three days of pacing and yelling and running hands through hair, Rowan had pulled Aelin aside and mentioned a possible solution: a tale from when he was a boy, of another realm, one where Fae and human were separated by a wall of adamant and strange magics thrummed through the land.

Aelin, being Aelin, had ignored his warnings of danger and probable failure, and scoured the libraries endlessly. It had taken less than a day to find the book she was looking for: _The Walking Dead._ And there, at the bottom of a nameless page, written in swirling Wyrdmarks, was the key.

 _Prythian,_ the place was called. More specifically, _Velaris._ How to get there exactly, she was not sure. That was something to worry about after the whole "making-it-through-the-portal" thing.

As they edged towards to the portal, Evangeline so close she was near stepping on Aelin's feet, it took only a glance at the limp, coal-black arm for the rage to return. Damn Maeve's archers for having such rutting good aim. Damn her magic for not working. Damn whatever strange substance had been on that arrow. She struggled to hide the irritation she knew would only further worry the girl. This particular habit, Rowan liked to call "negative-ruminations."

She could almost hear his scolding voice...

 _You're doing it again, Aelin. Just breathe. And think about how irrational your line of thinking is._

 _"_ The rutting buzzard can go to hell," Aelin muttered.

The tightening grip around her hand made her aware that Evangeline was in fact still there.

"What did you say?" the girl asked.

"Um..." She struggled to find a suitably evasive answer. "Oh, look! A portal!" Aelin yanked suddenly on Evangeline's arm and stumbled, sending them hurtling forward into the blinding light.

#

She couldn't help but feel she was missing something.

The world was black, then stark-white. Vaguely, Aelin thought of the unadulterated white of the Stag's fur, of Terrasen, of peace... That was why she started when a plethora of blurred rainbow colors pierced the foamy calm. Consciousness brought about a pounding headache, and with it, the sound of voices.

"Should we shoot?"

A male.

A second said, "Not until the High Lord gets here."

"But our orders—"

"Were to wait for the High Lord's command _,_ " the second interrupted harshly.

If Aelin hadn't felt as drunk as that one night as Dorian's, she might've told the bossy male just where he could shove his attitude. Blinking rapidly, she groaned and ran a hand through her snarled locks of hair and frowned at the dirt that smeared across her palm.

 _And no bathtubs in sight._

 _"_ She's awake, sir!" the first male said, voice pitched high.

"I can see that, moron." Dripping sarcasm.

A jolt went through her as she realized what her initial unease had been caused by. "Evangeline," she murmured under her breath.

"She's speaking!" The voice had far surpassed the bar of "male tenor," and Aelin thought perhaps he would've made an impressive opera soprano in another life.

"Yes, I can see that as well—"

Patience worn thin, Aelin glanced up sharply, pushed into a seated position, and said irritably, "Would you two shut up?"

They did so, promptly. But it didn't matter much, as the swell of gathered soldiers were parting around the hulking shape of a man in gleaming armor.

 _Fae,_ she corrected herself as his face came into view. Delicately pointed ears, a mane of golden hair framing a sharp jaw and emerald eyes.

Aelin found herself nodding vaguely as he assessed her in much the same way. "Not bad," she said. "Not bad at all." A tilt of the head as she squinted. "Though, you could do to lose a few inches on the hair. It makes your nose look wider than it actually is."

The Fae blinked. His lips tightened, but he took no notice of her comment.

She didn't like that.

"I am Tamlin," he said in a honey-dripping timbre. "The High Lord. And you are trespassing on my territory."

 _Don't trust him._

The voice was fleeting, a brush against her ear, and she kept her face blank even as wary surprise curled in her breast. Instead, she gave him a sweet smile, refusing to give in, to even _stand up_ in front of the brute. "Oh, really?" she asked. "And just what _is_ this territory?"

He straightened, and it reminded her of a bird puffing its plumage during courtship. "The Spring Court," he said proudly.

" _Spring?"_ Aelin snorted. "That's not very original, is it? I mean, you might as well name your sword _Wind-cleaver,_ or something equally as stupid."

Tamlin spluttered. "I am High Lord—"

 _He has the one you seek._

"Of the Spring Court, I know." She waved a hand in front of her face. "Now," finally she stood, "If you'll excuse me, I do have somewhere else I need to be."

 _I'll be waiting,_ the tendril of dark touched her consciousness again. _I will protect her._

 _You'd better,_ Aelin growled back, even though she was positive the thought fell on empty ears.

It took much longer than she'd anticipated for Tamlin to come to his senses. Longer still for his sentries to process his command to "Seize her!"

Aelin took specific delight in fleeing a mob set on killing her _,_ and only her. There was something so much more invigorating as opposed to other kinds of mobs. Perhaps it was the fact that she was the lone target, that she had to keep an eye over her shoulder for stray arrows, or maybe it was that the surprise on their faces was so much more pronounced when they were beaten.

With a wild grin, Aelin pivoted on her booted heel and let out a shrill laugh. The frontal line of men skidded confusedly at her abrupt halt, then seemed to come to the unanimous conclusion that they were fighting an idiot, and there was no reason to question good luck. As they approached, her grin only broadened, and some had the good sense to look nervous.

Her magic burst forth in a furious explosion. Fire licked at the edges of open forest, and a wall of solid flame hurtled towards the oncoming traffic. They didn't have time to scream before her crackling power met their flesh, scorching bone and peeling skin. She was in Fae form suddenly, sprinting back the way she'd come, through the chaotic rows of shrieking males and past a blur of golden hair and tanned skin.

"Get her!" Tamlin boomed, but Aelin only smiled wider.

#

Somewhere deep in the forest—that is, _deeper_ in the forest—an ashen-haired Fae male rested his aching everything in the safety of a tree. It had certainly been a pain to climb to even the lowest branch, what with his aching everything. The male ran a hand through his hair, scanned the horizon with onyx eyes.

The jump to another world had been terribly painful, near fatal if his battered body was anything to judge by. Deep fatigue had settled in his bones, but he fought it desperately. Danger could be anywhere, and though his arms were limp, his heart sputtering to keep up with the amount of energy drawn—

Fenrys grunted as he leapt from the tree.

His Queen needed him.


	20. Gossip Suri

**OMG SO SORRY FOR NOT UPDATING. NANOWRIMO caught me, and then ACOWAR came out, so here's SURI for YALL**

Creep or no-creep?" Feyre asked Mor. They stood in the East Wing hallway, squeezed flat against the white-washed wall in order to avoid the less-than-cool sophomores and juniors rushing to their classes. If they were hoping to avoid detention, too late. The bell had rung four minutes ago.

"The one picking his nose?" Mor whispered. "Or the one with the ears?"

"The ears."

Mor snorted, shifting a little to press her red sneaker more firmly against the wall. "Definitely creep."

"And the nose-picker?"

"You serious?"

"Okay, okay!" Feyre threw her hands up. "You find one then." The game of "creep or no-creep" they were currently playing was not doing much to keep her entertained. It was something _Cassian,_ of all people, had come up with, half-drunk at Rita's one night. He'd slammed a boot on the table, pointed a finger at a stranger, and declared in too-loud slur, "Creep!"

The one he'd pointed to was a short woman who, as the next series of events unfolded, obviously didn't take to well to being the center of attention. A moment later, she'd stepped into the light, revealing otherworldly blue eyes and a crimson-lipped frown. _Amren,_ her name was. Feyre had not wanted to play ever again after " _the incident,"_ but Mor hadn't been able to come up with anything better as they played hookie in the hallway.

Mor scanned the rapidly-thinning crowd, then gestured towards a lone figure standing next to locker 204. "Him."

He had lank, straw-like hair and thin, bloodless lips. In one hand he held a pencil, which he was using to rapidly scratch words on a sticky-note shoved against the locker door. In his other hand was one of those flimsy disposable cameras Feyre often bought at Walgreens, though Cassian complained that she was carrying an "I'm-poor" aesthetic, and it was affecting his luck with the ladies. Azriel had snorted, ruffled his hair, and said kindly, "It's not the camera doing that, Cass."

"Guys."

Feyre jumped, and Mor let out a little yelp at the deep, male voice echoing in the cramped, locker-filled hallway.

Cassian chuckled. "You two also hiding from Mrs. DeLaney?" That was their science teacher, who ran the A.P class that they were supposed to be attending. The very teacher who had been warning them for weeks about the test that would be given today.

"Yep," Feyre and Mor said at the same time.

Mor continued, "So we've decided to revive your stupid game."

Cassian looked at them quizzically, moving to lean beside Feyre at the wall. "Which one?"

Instead of answering, Feyre jerked her chin at the strange boy across the hall, still scribbling away. "Creep or no-creep?"

Cassian's booming laugh had the boy glancing up, staring directly at them.

" _Cassian,_ " Feyre hissed. "You just let him know we're spying on him!"

"I'm sorry," he said, not sounding very apologetic. "It's just—not only did you bring back a game that I thought up when I drunk, but that's the _Suriel."_

Feyre blinked. "The what?"

Cassian and Mor stared at her. "The Suriel? Suri?"

"Never heard of him," Feyre deadpanned.

Cassian shook his head, grinning ruefully. "Sometimes I forget how young you are, Feyre."

She glared. "I'm, like, three months younger than you."

"A wise scholar once said," he began, "'To a Cassian, each month is a year.'"

"Maybe because you fuck as many people in a month as I do in a year," Mor snorted.

"What's all this about fucking?"

Feyre's head turned at the voice, eyes immediately shooting to the tall, broad-shouldered figure striding down the hall towards them. _Rhys._ Just seeing him, hearing his velvety purr, her heart began to pound. Next to him stood Azriel.

"Mor was just acknowledging the fact that she's lonelier than I am," Cassian said matter-of-factly.

"I did not!" Mor turned to him, hands on hips, the segue into their squabble.

Feyre watched, amused, as Mor cuffed Cassian upside the head, to which he growled and shoved her off him. They shot barbs and quips at each other all the while. It was so entertaining that Feyre did not notice as Rhys slid up behind her.

"How are you, darling?" His throaty purr made her jump, becoming acutely aware of the fact that his entire body was pressed up behind hers.

"Fine." And dammit if her voice came out breathier than she intended. "Just watching Mor kick Cassian's ass."

"Hmm," he hummed, voice rumbling down to her toes. "Any other beautiful male's ass you stare at all day?"

Feyre huffed. "Prick."

He laughed, pulling her against him and pressing a kiss to her neck.

"Ew!" Mor cried. She stuck out her tongue.

"Yes," Cassian agreed. "Please don't make out in front of us."

"Again," Azriel added helpfully.

Rhys grinned. "You guys are just jealous that you're not allowed to." As if to prove his point, he turned Feyre around to face him, giving her only a second to catch her breath before pressing his lips to hers. His lips were warm and soft, and Feyre was just about to suggest they leave school early, when—

A squeal from behind.

They broke apart immediately, flushed and panting.

"Oh-em- _GEE!"_

All eyes turned to the figure in the hallway, the Suriel, Cassian had called him. He was clutching the camera to his chest, sticky-note adhered to his shirt, and looking ready to swoon. "Feysand. I totally called it."

He fainted.

Suffice it to say, Feyre and her friends were not present when the ambulance came to pick him up.


	21. Everyone's an Angel (Feysand)

Feyre had wings. Not the bright, feathered monstrosities that ninety percent of the population lay claim to, but real, goddamn, black-leather bat wings. The weight at her shoulder-blades was the mark of a Night Angel, but that was ridiculous, considering she'd never even visited Prythian or the Courts. Not when she was safe over here.

"Safe," she muttered. "In a bar."

Yes, a bar. Feyre Archeron, the Wild and Free, was sorely lacking in the second half of her title. Her father had left her here to watch the bar, claiming he had business elsewhere. It was clipped words he said before spreading his downy wings, snow-white until the very tips, lined with black.

She'd often thought it strange that her father's wings were different than hers. "Feathered instead of leathered," he liked to say. For most of her childhood, her wings had been a curse rather than an asset, so she'd gotten very good at hiding them. Especially when her magic had begun to mature. It was a testament to how shallow the children of her village were, given that all it took was a glamour to get them to forget her "problem."

Not a good childhood she'd had. But, well, Feyre mused, it was a rare, lucky thing indeed to be blessed with one.

She sighed, glanced around the bar. The walls were aged and cracked, the floor in much the same condition. The circle tables, only three, were all shoved to one side of the room for Feyre's own convenience. It wasn't like anyone would be coming anytime soon. Like all the weeks before, the place was blessedly, devastatingly empty.

Leaning her arm on the bar's counter top and pressing her chin into the cup of her hand, she was just about ready to resign herself to another, long, nap-filled day... When the jangle of the bell at the door's lintel had her shooting awake.

In stepped five figures, three males in front, and two females in back. The males, they might've been brothers. Black hair, sparking eyes... The first female was beautiful, with honey-colored hair that fell to her navel, framing a sharp, clever face and chocolate eyes. The second female was...terrifying. But the thing that really had Feyre standing at attention were their wings. At their backs, at all their backs, were not angel's wings but—

"'Leathered instead of feathered,'" she whispered, for this was the first time she'd ever seen someone other than herself host to bat's wings.

One of the males snorted. He was rougher than his supposed brothers, hair a bit longer, and overall appearance just a bit more disheveled. It suited him, though. "That's a first," he said, voice deep and booming, promising a laugh that sounded much the same. "Usually it takes a longer than two minutes before they start muttering nonsense."

"Hmm," the male next to him said. "Perhaps she's flabbergasted by our beauty."

"Or," the blonde female said, "maybe she's delirious after so long without company." She glanced meaningfully at the neglected room.

Flushing at the attention, Feyre swiped a rag from beneath the counter and began scrubbing furiously.

"Oh, no, _Sweetheart."_ The first male, smelling of vanilla and something darker, muskier, stepped close. He lifted her chin with a finger and gave her a roguish grin. "Don't be embarrassed, sweetheart. Not when a pretty face like yours is much better suited to a smile."

She blushed further, tearing herself away from his touch.

A snarl rippled through the room. The violet-eyed male stalked over to his brother, getting up in his face. "Cassian, I _told_ you—"

Cassian laughed and held up his hands. "Relax, Rhysand." A wink at Feyre. "She's all yours."

He headed back to the others, pulling them to take a seat at one of the tables. None of them seemed to notice that it was tiny and pressed too-close to the wall. Or that there were only three chairs.

The violet-eyed male lingered. Feyre tried to ignore him by washing the counter top, but it obviously wasn't working very well, judging by how many times she glanced up and met his stare. He made her uncomfortable. Not because he was doing anything wrong—on the contrary, his gaze was curious, if not a bit intense—but because of the pull she felt towards him. A tugging, deep in her gut.

It was this tug that had her working up the courage to ask, "What is it?"

He cocked his head. "What's what?" His voice, deeper and richer than his friend's, had her stomach swooping.

"Don't you feel it?" she blurted. The wrong thing to say, from the way the hushed conversation ceased entirely and all eyes turned to face her.

"Feel what?" Rhysand's voice was a dangerous, lover's croon in the quiet.

Feyre swallowed. "Nothing. Nevermi—"

And then he was in front of her, close enough to feel the heat of him, and her breath caught.

"Feel what, Feyre?" he purred, eyes glinting mischievously. She hadn't noticed before, had been too busy trying to ignore him, to see how handsome he was. His face was smooth and unmarred, lashes long, jaw strong, dark hair framing his eyes quite nicely—

"Have you finished boosting my ego?" he asked, mirth filling his voice.

Feyre recoiled. "What? How did you...?"

He waited, and she took a breath.

"I thought," she said evenly, "that I was the only one who could read minds."

A sharp laugh, filled with genuine surprise. "No, darling. _Daemati._ That's what we are." He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear, "And you have a _delicious_ mind, if I do say so myself."

Heat stained her cheeks, mortification filling her, so much that she ignored the dark power oozing off him in waves. " _Prick,"_ she hissed, giving him a halfhearted shove.

It only made him grin wider. "There you are, darling."

"Don't you _darling_ me," she growled. "Not after poking through my mind like some creep."

" _Creep?"_ He drew back, dramatically holding his hand to his heart. "I am _offended,_ darling. You've got the wrong man." He nodded to Cassian. "He's the creep."

Feyre snapped, "At least he didn't stare at me for five minutes before talking to me."

A bark of laughter from the terrifying, otherworldly female. "So she's got a spine after all."

And that was how it started.

Rhys ushered her over to the table after that first initial meeting, coaxing her into introducing herself. She learned their names, and the stories behind them. Cassian, the general of the Night Angels' fleets. Azriel, master of spies and all things dark and mysterious. Mor, the Morrigan, who'd been born with wings of the wrong kind in a Court of hatred and lies. Amren, who was a thing not quite of this world.

And Rhys.

Rhysand, the High Lord, who wore a mask to protect his people, sold his soul to a bitch for fifty years to keep them all safe. Rhysand who was a bastard, with the features of his pure, Dawn Angel father, and the wings of his Night mother. Rhysand, who she found herself inexplicably drawn to, compelled to tell him her secrets, and find safety in his arms.

Feyre watched Cassian and Azriel in the sky, instructing the females on the finer points of flying. They did this every day, Rhys said. She felt out of place, leaning against a tree with Rhysand's warm weight beside her. They did it so naturally, so easily, like they'd been born of the wind. It made sense, after all, what with them being Angels and all.

"Thought for a thought?" Rhys asked beside her.

Feyre glanced at him. It was the game they played, that had her revealing things to him she'd never imagine revealing to anyone else. And the things he said... Either enough to draw tears to her eyes, or make her blush hard enough to want to slap him.

A smirk played at the corners of his mouth, as if he knew just what she was thinking. And—

She shoved him, and he fell back laughing. "Get out of my head, _Prick!"_

He continued to laugh, even as she crossed her arms and huffed irritably. "If you'd had your shields up," he said between gasps, "you wouldn't have this problem."

"If you'd mind your own damn business," Feyre retorted, "you wouldn't be so much of a damn prick that I want to shove you off a cliff every thirty seconds."

Rhys looked up at her with baleful eyes. "If you threw me off a cliff, you'd lose this face."

"Good."

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

And just when she thought it was over—

 _And you wouldn't be able to throw me off a cliff. I'm_ way _bigger than you._

" _Rhysand!"_ This time Feyre did not have any problem sending a bucketful of water over his head. It was one magic of many. Remarkable, Rhys and his friends said, because most were only privy to one kind. She had all seven. She shrugged off the praise and said it was something she was born with. Laughing, Cassian reminded her, they'd _all_ been born possessing only one magic.

Rhysand, for his part, was not moved by the display of power, or even simply getting soaked to the skin. Instead, he sent a challenge down that strange bond between them, and raced in the opposite direction. Inexplicably, Feyre ran after him, a giddy sort of joy going through her. They dodged and chased, throwing little balls of darkness at each other. When finally Rhys managed to land a hit on her, Feyre jerked back. It did not hurt, but _tickled._ The sheer nerve of him, it had her running with renewed vigor.

And then, laughing, he leapt into the sky. Feyre skidded to a halt. When she did not immediately follow him, Rhysand paused and turned in the air to look down at her. "Well? Are you coming?"

His voice was breathless, his face flushed with joy, hair in a mess from the wind and the sudden flight. _Beautiful,_ Feyre thought. More than attractive in appearance, he was a kindred soul. Like hers. And his hand, stretched out to her, his friends tussling in the sky above...

She shook her head, sorrow filling every pore. She longed, she wished, but...

"I can't," she whispered.

The smile faded from his face as she turned around. To go back to the bar. Her wings trailed dejectedly behind her. But Rhys dropped from the sky directly in front of her, concern lining his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." But her words were hurried, and she _knew_ he could feel her shame through the bond.

"Feyre." He lifted her chin, voice soft and tender. "Look at me."

She did look at him, me his violet gaze, trying to keep in tears.

"You can't fly, can you?"

The one thing she never wanted anyone to find out about her.

"No," she said hoarsely, tearing away from his grip to wrap her arms around herself.

"Why?" The word was flat and tense.

She didn't answer.

"Feyre." This time he sounded angry, and she shied from that fury, so hot, only to find... Deep in the bond, she could feel something else. It was kinder, a deep sorrow, directed at _her._ He wasn't mad at her. No, he was mad at whoever had done this to her.

So she swallowed and said, still looking at the ground, "My father. He didn't want me to learn. Because...my wings were different. He said that people would hurt me if they knew I was Night."

"And did they?"

She dared a glance at him, the source of that midnight voice, and found his wings were half-flared, and his eyes were deep with dark power.

"Yes," she whispered.

The thudding of wings as four figures joined Rhys on the ground.

"What's wrong?" Cassian, voice assertive, surveying for danger.

"Feyre says she was hurt because she was different," Rhysand replied, and his voice was a midnight caress as he said the words.

"By who?" Azriel, iron gaze promising death.

Mor sidled closer to him, half-drawing a blade from the sheath at her thigh.

It made her breath stutter, to see these people who cared for her, getting upset on her behalf. But it was also just a little bit hilarious because—

Surrounded by bristling weaponry, faces set with a rage so deep it made her shudder, stood Amren. And her face was bored, only slightly miffed. Among the angry expressions, she looked like a cat whose dinner had escaped.

So Feyre laughed, even while tears slid down her face, falling into the grass when her legs couldn't support her.

"Is she alright?"

"Is she crying?"

"Do you think someone poisoned her?"

Assessing hands were poking at her, but it _tickled,_ and it only made her laugh harder.

Finally, Rhys sent a worried, but overwhelmingly relieved, question down the bond.

"I'm," Feyre gasped, wiping her eyes. "I'm—okay." Clearer, "I'm okay."

Five curious faces stared down at her, not nearly so imperious as she'd thought them four months ago. _Friends. Family._

It set the tears anew, albeit for a different reason, but there was no embarrassment this time. So Feyre gave them her best, most sincere, watery-eyed smile, and felt a flutter in her chest when they returned it, each and every one of them.


	22. Everyone's an Angel Part 2 (Feysand)

Rhys, Cassian, and Mor all wanted to be the one to teach her to fly.

They clawed and scratched each other bloody, until Amren was forced to break them up through various unmentionable threats. Of course, it was Azriel who won in the end. (Feyre had a feeling his silent surety came from past experience as the... _maternal_ figure. Now that she was thinking about it, she could definitely see the others getting into trouble with those impulsive streaks of theirs, and Azriel, the only sensible one, having to come fish them out of whatever mess they'd gotten into.)

As Azriel announced his desire to train Feyre, dismayed cries broke out from the rest of them.

"Aw, Az!" Mor complained. "You always get to do the fun stuff!"

"Yeah," Cassian said. "Like rescuing her from her psychotic family!"

Amren asked, "How is that fun?"

"Because we all wanted to do it!"

"So?" Her voice was incredulous.

"So, when everyone wants to do something at the same time, it's fun to come out on top and crush all their spirits in the process. Duh."

"That is...remarkably horrible," Azriel remarked, and he began ushering Feyre in the opposite direction. Feyre, confused and slightly disoriented, did not fight him. For her ears only, he said, "Just ignore them. We'll be safe soon."

"It might be horrible," Amren distant voice crowed from behind, "but it's not nearly as bad as that time with Cassian's socks and the banana!"

Feyre jerked back so fast, Azriel almost stumbled. "The _what?"_

Azriel huffed out a laugh and shook his head. "With those guys, it's best not to ask."

Feyre took his word for it.

A few hours later, they stood in the safety of a grove. The wind blew in little, excited gusts, encouraging the nerves squirming deep in her belly.

Azriel must've noticed, because his dark eyes softened, and he murmured, "Feyre..."

It was as good as a question. She looked at the ground and wrapped her arms tight about herself. Feyre was sure he already knew what she was about to say, but she wished to do so anyway. "I — I'm worried...scared..." Finally, her eyes met his. "What will I do if I fall?"

"Then you'll get up." His response was immediate, the words so fierce, she stepped back. At her reaction, Azriel visibly restrained his anger. "Feyre. You are not weak, no matter what others have told you. If you fall, you'll get up, just like you've always done."

Silence for a minute.

Then she took a breath, nodded.

"Alright." His voice became brisk, commanding. "Let's see them, then."

Feyre tried to spread them...and nearly fell backwards on her ass.

Azriel raised an eyebrow. "Feeling faint already? We haven't even started the heavy lifting."

Feyre glared, but secretly she enjoyed the lighter, less-than-serious side to him. "Oh, I think we have," she hissed in reply. "These things are _a lot_ heavier than they look."

"That's why the Night Court is in such good shape."

Feyre cocked her head at him. "You know, I don't know if anyone's ever told you this before, but you've got quite a mouth on you."

He ducked his head in acknowledgement, but Feyre could see the faint smile etched across his lips.

"Enough of this," he said softly. "Wings, please."

Feyre tried again, this time leaning forward expectantly in anticipation of the added weight. _Lift,_ she told herself. _Lift!_ She settled for a half-lift.

Azriel didn't seem to mind, stepping up behind her. A feather-light touch at the base of the wing had her wings shooting forward in a knee-jerk motion. Of course, the same problem applied as before — she was trying to pull her own body-weight with muscles she did not have — and pain rippled along her spine.

"Dammit," she spat.

"That's why you've got to train," Azriel said. "You're too vulnerable right now."

Feyre managed a confused smile, though unease prowled through her gut. "And what do I have to be worried about?"

A shadow passed across his face — literally. "If you're Night? Just about everything."

#

Weeks later, sore and utterly exhausted, Feyre trudged back to Rhys' house. Her wings were folded tight against her body, but even still, the talons dug furrows in the ground. Azriel had told her that it was unusual, that her wings were much larger than average for a female her size. In time, that would prove an advantage in the sky, make her stronger, give her greater speed and agility. But for now...well, pain was a bitch.

It was sundown, which meant that she'd trained all day. Not unusual, not unwelcome, but a break would be nice every now and again. Grateful for the breeze kissing her salty skin, Feyre trekked through the thin patch of woodland that hid Rhys' home from unwelcome visitors. It was surprisingly close to the center of everything, the people and the carts and the markets. But that was perfect, because the kind of people who lived in raucous city chatter did not care to look in each and every little nook and cranny that nature provided.

Rhys' house was hidden away in a little pocket that no one had deemed worthy of their footprint in over a hundred years. The ground she walked began its slow angle down, her calves and thighs barking in protest. It was only the beginning, for where the trees began to thin, the ground took a sharp curve skywards, marking the start of Night territory.

The trees pulled away suddenly, revealing a dusky, moon-kissed sky and clear mountain air. Getting to the top of the mountain should've been easy, for the inhabitants of this place were all equipped with a monster set of wings. But too bad for her, because she just _had_ to have been born to the one dad in the world who would not teach his daughter to fly. So Feyre climbed, muscles aching.

When she reached the top, she was sweatier than she had been when she'd started, and just plain miserable. She wanted to punch someone. Desperately.

She almost did when two hands grasped her waist from behind.

" _Rhysand,"_ she hissed, voice leaking murder.

His velvet laugh filled her ear. "Hm. Yes, darling?" His nose found its way into her hair.

Feyre tried to jerk away, but his hands held firm. "What the _fuck._ Did you just _sniff_ me?"

He breathed deep and _Goddamit, she could feel him smiling._ "You smell like sweat and roses."

Her stomach gave a happy little flip at his tone, but she couldn't help saying, "That's certainly a strange mix."

"Maybe half of it belongs to Azriel."

Sarcasm dripping like honey, she replied, "I doubt Azriel smells like roses, Rhys. Sorry to burst your gay-bubble."

Rhysand spun her around suddenly and brought her to his chest.

Startled, Feyre's suave demeanor failed her entirely.

"I missed you, Feyre," he breathed.

She wheezed a laugh, because he was kind of choking her and it was hard to breathe pressed against his pectoral. "It's barely been a day, Rhys," she mumbled.

His arms tightened, and she let out a little _whoof_ of air —

Rhys' embrace slackened as he stepped away from her entirely. "Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to...sorry."

Feyre studied him, rubbing at her neck absently. He rubbed at the back of his head, almost sheepish, unsure of himself for once.

She decided she liked that.

"Well?" she asked.

"What?" His voice held poorly-concealed nerves.

"Won't you invite me inside?"

A brilliant smile graced his lips, relief and vague amusement evident on his face. "Of course, darling."

He held out a hand, and for once she did not hesitate to take it.


	23. SEND ME PROMPTS

**Hey, guys. I forgot to say sorry for being away so long! It's just that NaNoRiMo was up, then ACOWAR came out, then NaNoRiMo again in a month. I mean, it's been busy. So, yeah. I'm looking for prompts to make it up to you all, so just post in the reviews or something if you want anything.**

 **-Arya :)**


	24. Her Spark is a Flame, Her Fire a Blaze

The first time they met, she was dressed in white.

It really didn't suit her, he thought. Her skin was too-pale against the sheer fabric, her cheeks flushed an ugly red and her eyes dulled to gray pinpricks. Nobody else seemed to notice. The servants bowed their heads respectfully, some falling to their knees in what was surely an over exaggeration of propriety. Not even the square-jawed prince, the keeper of the Lady's leash, took note, nor the red-haired dog that lapped at his feet.

"I want a painting," said the Prince, voice cold as his eyes, emerald pools that went deep and dark and down.

Rhysand kept his tone demure, as surely the lady's was to be soon enough. "Of course, My Lord," he said from where he knelt on the marble steps. "And what would I be painting?" He said _what,_ though he already knew the subject of his brush, for surely she was not a creature of this world to be so beautiful, even bedecked in such glib frippery. Even with cheeks hollowed thin and shadows framing her eyes, dark as her lashes.

The Prince pulled his wife towards him with a lazy arm about her shoulders, motion expectant and entitled. Rhysand almost missed her flinch. "My lovely wife," the Prince said, turning to gaze upon her face. She did not look back, jaw tensing when his fingers found their way under her chin, pulling her not roughly, but insistently, to face him. "Paint this... _gorgeous_ piece of art." His eyes glazed.

Rhysand curled his lip. Did he not see what a horrible state he had put her in? Her dress should not fold inwards at the bend of her stomach, nor should his fingers be able to ensnare the thin bridge of her wrist. He had seen paupers that looked better than she, and living an estate as large as the city's half... Surely the Prince could provide?

"I remember the first time I found her," the Prince murmured, words a quiet musing, eyes intense and unseeing as he stared into his Lady's steel-gray orbs.

Rhysand glanced around at the gathered servants (slaves, more like). Was he the only one to see the shallow motion of their Lady's throat bobbing, or the barely-contained _fury_ in the lines of her face? She was not even a good actress. But their heads remained stubbornly down.

"She was in the streets," the Prince continued. "The slums of that wretched city." Here, his lips pulled back, revealing teeth sharp as a shark's. "Velaris."

Rhysand froze on those steps, blood turned cold at the mention of his hometown, the place he had left six years ago, thinking it safe, a secret. A whisper on the lips. But apparently that whisper had turned to talk and then to shout and then to laughter at those who had _not_ heard.

"Velaris," the Prince repeated, fingers tightening on his Lady's jaw, nails biting in hard enough to mark her flesh. She did not cry out, though her hands gripped her dress hard. "The same place that the old High Lord called me a fool." The Prince chuckled. "The cobbles were painted with his blood the next minute. I ought to think the civilians were taught a good lesson, not to disrespect me. But just to be sure I had to kill the rest of them."

Rhysand clenched his fist, breath sputtering out of his chest.

"Killed his daughter first. She was so little in my hands. She broke quite nicely. Next came his wife." The Prince drew a breath, hand squeezing tighter, and a drop of blood trickled down his Lady's cheek. "She was such a pretty thing. Her hands were so soft." A cruel smile suddenly replaced the wondering look in his eye. "And she screamed quite nicely when I had my fill of her. Much like you, my dear." He stroked his wife's hair. "Why do you not look at me, Feyre?"

Rhysand did not think the Lady was breathing.

The Prince stared at her for a long while, breaking his gaze with a small shake of his head, turning his eyes back to the figure stooped at his feet. "Give me something worthwhile, painter, and I will give you more money than you could ever hope to gain in your life."

His eyes burned, and for once he was glad that his head was turned to the floor. If he had to look upon the Prince's face, he would surely do something stupid.

"I shall paint you, Lord," Rhysand spat out. "I shall paint you."

#

The painting was a lie, a beautiful, flower-crusted lie, with roses encasing a man whose shoulders were unnaturally broad, golden tresses falling just past his shoulders, and eyes the same vibrant green as the thorns studding the roses' stems. He painted a monster, one that hid behind a curtain of sunshine, bright enough to blind any passing by, but never enough to make blind those willing to look closer.

The strangest thing was that nobody seemed to notice anything odd about it.

#

"It'll do." The Prince looked up from the portrait. "You've proven your skill. Now paint me what I wanted in the first place."

For her, he painted the truth. Beneath that horrible, demurring veneer of arched back and graceful neck, hands laid in lap and velvet skin wrapped in ribbon. When he painted her, his lines were harsh and jagged, a caustic, cutting thing, with colors black and gray and pale red. He ignored the way her legs crossed, dress wide and modest and too-long, the perfect model of feminine perfection. He ignored all that and focused instead on the fiery gray of her eyes, the powerful muscles that were visible beneath all _that,_ the finery and the tautness of her flesh over her bones. And he painted the truth.

When she laid eyes on it, under the shadow of his ceiling, the slope of his walls, she only said, "An interesting interpretation."

And Rhysand gave her a knowing look, a smile wry, and said, "I can always see through a disguise."

#

"Well done, painter," the Prince said. "You've done good. You'll find your reward in the carriage out back."

Rhysand bowed graciously. "Thank you, Lord. It was a pleasure."

From behind the curtain, the Lady watched. She was not supposed to. She was supposed to be in bed, resting from her stroll, but as time passed she found it harder and harder to keep herself contained within that prison.

Curious eyes followed the painter as he gave his final goodbyes and made his way towards the exit. The very same place she stood at. She did not shy away, though. No, she was not afraid of him, merely intrigued.

He pushed aside the curtain and froze when he saw her. "Lady," he said, clearly surprised. A moment later, he had gone through the proper bow. "I had not expected you out of bed."

His voice was not prying, but there was the hint of something else. Something sad and more than a little angry, judging.

It sparked her own fury. "Perhaps I didn't feel like sleeping in the middle of the day," she snapped.

He blinked, and then the ghost of a smile quirked his lips. "Fair enough." His tone changed. "Lady, I had hoped to give you something." His hand fumbled inside his jacket, fishing out a thick roll of paper. "This is for you."

She took it. "My painting," she stated. "You didn't give it to Ta—to the Lord."

"No." Rhysand gazed at her. "I don't think he would be able to appreciate it as much as you."

Feyre looked up sharply. "I'm not sure I understand your meaning, painter."

He stepped close, close enough that she could smell him. "I mean," he breathed, "that there is more to it than meets the eye. Just as there is to you."

She shifted just slightly, finding his eyes were right beside her own. She started at the shade, a violet so deep they were almost black. _Extroardinary..._

Her lips parted at the feel of his breath on her neck, the phantom touch of his fingers at her waist—

But then sense got hold of her, and she was pulling away, readjusting her skirts and catching her breath. "Well," she said.

Rhysand's face was unreadable.

"I...thank you."

He nodded, dropped into a graceful bow, and said, "I'd do it again in a heartbeat, Lady." He stood and dusted off his trousers before meeting her gaze. "But don't you forget, Feyre, I can see right through you. And soon, others will be able to, as well.

"

The painting was hung in the narrow end of the foyer, just before the great wooden doors that held the peasants at bay. The colors were dark and heavy, and they should've been near unnoticeable in the gloom of the hallway, yet somehow the eye was drawn straight to that area, and where the attention wanders the feet follow. An entering stranger would soon find himself standing before a great portrait, life-size, nailed to the wall. A black background framed the face of Feyre Archeron, the Lady of Spring and Shadow of Night. Her eyes were not dulled the way they had been that first morning, holding great wells of fire and spirit and something else that shouted _I am not what you think, I am not what_ he _thinks._ Dark hair smudged about her head in a great halo, highlighted in the ray of the moon, and fading as it approached the bottom of her breasts. From the waist down, there was mostly black, and only the vague outline of something else: the silhouette of clawed hands and taloned feet, a curving tail, and at her temples, the barest hint of horns.

Shadowed above her head, and cradling the moon in a gentle embrace, were the outlines of two towering wings.


	25. The Cure Pt 2

**I may have taken some liberties with the Weaver's cottage.**

Aelin was pissed again.

The initial rush of outrunning a band of angry, terrified soldiers was gone. Impossible to retain any kind of good spirit if you'd been running nonstop for the better part of a day. Even harder if you were running through a forest.

She hissed a curse as she ran headlong into a branch. Cursed again when an arrow grazed the pointed tip of her ear.

"Damned archers," she muttered, coaxing her weary legs to move faster.

Her breaths came in short, rasping pants, lungs burning, braid streaming. Going from knocked-unconscious to flat-out sprint was a stupid stunt, even for her, but to go from flat-out sprint to marathon-run was proof of how exhausted and addled she was.

The trees were a blur as she ran past, pine and oak and forever-budding dogwood. The animals had been scared off by the commotion behind, but the flora was still present. Purple jasmine flowers and little, yellow spuds that puffed and floated on the breeze. In another situation, she may have been lucid enough to call this place beautiful. But through current events, "fuckin' madhouse" may have been a more apt description.

As the day wore on, Aelin noted that the trees had begun to thin. Her first reaction was to be grateful, for there were fewer roots and rocks to trip upon, but then common sense spoke up and she realized that less cover meant an easy target.

From behind came a shout. "Archers, ready!"

An arrow thunked into the bark of a tree beside her head.

Aelin whirled, cupped a hand to her mouth, and shouted back, "Definitely ready!" And then resumed running.

Perhaps sound carried better in these woods, and perhaps Tamlin's soldiers possessed a pride easily-wounded, (or perhaps she'd finally tired, and she just wouldn't admit it) for suddenly they were that much faster than her, breaking through the trees on white horses and bedecked in golden armor, plated scales running down the graceful lines of their legs and arms. How they had gotten into such assembly while she wasn't looking, she'd never understand.

But her steps were slowing as nausea and dehydration set in, and panic, with his stubby little legs, was finally able to catch up to her mind and say, _What the fuck are you gonna do now?"_

For the first time in a long while, Aelin Galathynius was prepared to give up, but then that shadowy little voice brushed her mind.

 _This way,_ it said, and this time something in it was distinctly female.

A mental tug had her stumbling eastwards, cutting a line directly across the soldiers' path, a necessary risk if she was to have any hope of escape. Her body went into autopilot, brain shutting off, until all she could feel was that insistent pull and a little voice in her head saying, _This way, this way._

Aelin's mind woke up some time later, when she realized a miracle was occurring before her very eyes. Somehow, _somehow,_ the voices were fading. A deep inhale had her suspicions confirmed. She couldn't smell Tamlin anymore.

The trees had stopped thinning, but the land was remarkably different. The plants were thinner, longer, as if less accustomed to standing stiff against the wind or pulling nutrient from the sun, and more to creeping around the trunk of some greater life, drawing soul from _that_ being instead.

The air was still and humid, thick with pollen and heavy as a blanket. Aelin was left with the feeling she could sweat as much as she liked and she'd never cool off.

The voice said, _Almost there. This way._

She found her steps slowing, mind clearing, and her gaze drifted across the small glade she'd stopped in. There, to the left, was a small cottage. Thatch on the roof, held together by something sticky and thick. Thin windows, tall and thin, like those on the castles back in the mountains of Doranelle. Immediately upon seeing it, Aelin struggled to turn around, fought the hold in her mind. She might be dead tired, but her instincts were still in tact. Something was very wrong with this place.

 _Calm down,_ the voice said, and...yes, that was definitely a female, an irritated, testy one at that.

" _Hell,_ no," Aelin said out loud. "You're crazy."

Irritation flickered again.

And then the door was opening, and a clean, brown-haired female was stepping outside. Her scent was strong even with the breeze so full of pollen and Spring-shit, something dark and writhing, like a feral beast shoved into a rusted-down cage, bars popping and straining and near ready to burst.

As the female stalked closer, green dress swishing behind her, Aelin took note of the pointed ears, the delicate tattoo trailing up her arm, and the angry cobalt eyes that now flashed at her. The female stopped right in front of her, perhaps an inch or two shorter than Aelin herself, but not intimidated in the slightest.

The first thing she said was (in a particularly crabby, old woman kind of way, if anyone was asking Aelin), "If you want to die, stay out here. If not, stop being an ass and follow me."

With that, she pivoted on her heel and stomped back to the cottage. Aelin slipped inside before the door could slam shut.

Inside, it was a mess. No matter how disturbing the outside of the house was. The interior was...something. The floors and ceilings resembled hardwood, but they were pure, midnight black. And old. Ancient. No cobwebs, no spiders or creepy things hiding behind rotted boards, but it was cracked and had that musty book-smell of houses long ago abandoned. There were no connecting hallways, and Aelin thought that the whole place was a lot smaller than it appeared on the outside. The single room was lit with scanty furniture: an old chest (and with the chairs surrounding it, and its relatively flat top, she supposed it was passing as a table), a stuffed black dog curled on the purple throw-rug in the back, a bookcase, so low to the ground it might've been built for that hound, once well-aged (and somehow breathing), to go perusing through the stacks. And then there was the old loom, propped in the corner of the room beside a thin-cushioned stool, perfect and unmarked by dust, as if someone had used it just hours ago.

Overall, it was the works of a _very_ creepy house.

Aelin turned to find the female assessing her with a frankness that had her bristling.

She glared right back.

The female let out something that might have been a snort and moved to get one of the chairs from its perch beside the chest. She brought it over, a nice healthy distance away, and flicked her fingers in a way that indicated Aelin should sit.

If she'd been at full strength, she might have laughed, turned the chair upside down and sat on the wrong side, just for the heck of it. But she wasn't, and so she didn't.

Her body sagged when she sat, fatigue hitting her with all the subtlety of a brick to the face. She hadn't let it show, but even when she'd just woken up from unconsciousness she'd been tired. Dealing with fools like Tamlin made her head hurt on a good day, but with Evangeline so far gone, and without Rowan's stoic support at her side...

She knuckled her eyes. "Damn..."

Soft footsteps had her looking up. The female had returned, a washcloth and bucket in hand.

"I know some things about healing," she said.

It was an offer.

Aelin cocked her head. Then nodded.

The female set the bucket down and knelt beside her. She did not pick up the washcloth as Aelin expected. Instead, a gentle whisper in her mind — _Let me in?_

Aelin glanced up sharply, found the female's piercing eyes already waiting. Knowing. Aelin studied her for a moment, wary and intrigued at the same time. Open trust did not come easy.

But this female had helped her and obviously was aware that Tamlin was an idiot, and as far as she was concerned, that was reason enough to place _some_ good will in a person.

So Aelin nodded and the voice turned into something thicker, more tangible, as it brushed up against a barrier in her mind she hadn't been aware existed.

 _You need to put this down._

Aelin wasn't sure how, but she tried, and she found that this "wall" slid away as willingly as it slammed back up. The shadow in her head was gentle and feather-light, which she appreciated, given how startling even this small touch was. It wriggled deeper and deeper, like a little black worm, until it had reached the very core of her, a center of golden flame and burning heart. The worm felt out of place in there, and Aelin had to fight to keep from shoving it away entirely.

 _Relax._ A word on the edge of her consciousness.

The word was a command, an order, and it had her rising faster than she could measure. Stubborn refusal and rage bubbling to the surface, hot and angry and compulsory. A knife found its way into her hand and she took a step forward, even through the sub-reality of her own making.

 _Relax._ The word held a harder edge.

It was a struggle to remind herself that the danger was of her mind and not a noose poised about her neck.

She won, eventually, forcing tense muscles to relax and heart-rate to steady. The worm seemed to sigh, and then something deep and dark flowed into her being, a soothing darkness like she hadn't felt since she was less than a babe, rocked to sleep in her mother's womb. It filled her, full to bursting, sending dying embers into a burst of flame that popped and roared before settling into a steady beat.

Aelin opened her eyes with a quiet gasp.

The worm was gone, and —

"I feel... _good,_ " she breathed. "Better than good."

The female laughed quietly. "They always say that the first time." Still kneeling on the floor, her stern gaze had softened considerably, into something friendly, if slightly concerned. "You're alright, then?"

Aelin gave her an incredulous stare. "Did I not just say that?"

The female shook her head, a sly smile on her lips. "You did. I meant mentally." Her smile halted, blue eyes darkening. "Tamlin can be a bit..."

"Of an ass?"

"Of an ass," the female agreed.

Their voices died away, and suddenly without them, everything seemed unnaturally still. A glance out the reed-thin window confirmed that yes, the world chirped on outside, with a crescent moon hanging dubious in a purple sky.

"Moon's beautiful, isn't it?" the female murmured, and Aelin wondered if she was imagining that quiet hint of longing.

She debated the many possible tones to which she could answer that question before settling on, "Looks like a toenail clipping."

A snort. "I suppose it does."

Aelin studied the female, brown hair snagging halfway down her back, slender neck and nose, eyes deep and knowing as her own. All distraction to hide the strange broadness of her shoulders, the muscle that danced along her arms and legs, all unbecoming of a lady born to tittering and lash-fluttering.

 _Sort of like...me?_

In the following moments, she contemplated the wisdom of her next decision.

"Aelin Galathynius," she said abruptly, and the female turned to look at her. "That's my name. I also happen to be queen of a kingdom you've never heard of."

The female blinked, then nodded, as if this news was not particularly surprising. "I'm Feyre." A pause. "Affiliated with a Court different than this."

Aelin grinned. "Would never have guessed, what with how loyal you are to His Royal Pansy-ass."

Feyre snorted and shifted on the floor into a cross-legged position. "Try dealing with him for nine months and let's see how loyal _you_ are."

"Oh, I don't know. I think I could entertain myself. It was kind of fun to see him spluttering so beautifully."

Feyre scratched her cheek. "You've got me beat for sheer will, I'll give you that. Knocked unconscious only to wake up Tamlin's face." She shook her head. "I'd have gone right back to sleep."

Aelin laughed. "I was thinking about it." As her gaze wandered the cottage's strange contents, her thoughts returned to more pressing matters. "Where are we exactly."

"Well..." Feyre hesitated.

Suspicion was her bane. Voice flat, Aelin said, "Tell me."

A flash of temper. "I'd tell you if I knew," she bit out. "This place isn't exactly consistent."

"What do you mean?"

"Sometimes it's here, and sometimes it's...not." She shrugged. "The previous owner was old, older than this land. She needed somewhere safe to stay, so she built this cottage. She made sure it was sufficiently hidden from the rest of the world. Took safety precautions."

"Disappearing to somewhere you can't find it isn't very befitting of a safe-haven."

Feyre brushed a fist down her jaw, a crease of worry appearing between her brows. "That's not all it does."

Aelin gave her a look.

"It also...might disappear while you're in it."

She blinked. "You mean we might be hurtling through space right now?"

"Possibly."

Aelin looked out the window again. The moon was still there, wan and pale as ever. "Doesn't look like it."

"It doesn't have to," Feyre said. "It —" She sighed the sigh of one too young to be so weary. She stood up and smoothed a wrinkle in her dress. "Do you know what a pocket realm is?"

Aelin swung back in her chair, arm hanging over the side. "No idea."

"It's...hard to explain. I...perhaps better if I show you." Feyre paced in a circle, looking decidedly frazzled as she ran a hand through her hair. "I wish Rhysand was here," she muttered. "Always the better teacher." She stopped, took a breath, and turned back to Aelin. "This might be a bit startling."

She snapped her fingers.

Aelin was not sure what happened next.

 **Cliffhanger for y'all!**


End file.
